tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67112929517849443152018-08-28T09:55:00.992-07:00An Active LifeTales and observations from a life spent among actors,
by peter kelleyPeter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-66576966067597466582014-04-21T18:53:00.000-07:002014-04-21T19:22:14.016-07:00A Letter to my Friends in BostonWalking down Boylston on Sunday and the sight breaks my heart: the Old South Church, barricaded.<br /><br />It's Boston, it's Easter, and the church is blocked. Maybe, I think, this is what it's come to: for one day a year, Boston in Belfast in the nineties.<br /><br />&nbsp;...but then three minutes later and half a block down, the Library.<br /><br />And my heart mends a little, for I remember that Boston's values are my values. Surely this what we fought for, all those years ago; surely this is the best of us. Everything I love is in that building: knowledge, learning, beauty, hope, art. For all of us, for free. It's striking to me, these two scenes, but it's so often this way with life: the contrasts sit impossibly side by side. The juxtaposition reveals the beauty. (It's my eternal problem with Los Angeles: beauty-on-beauty doesn't juxtapose so good.)<br /><br />&nbsp;A year ago, we were all sorely tempted to conclude that belief in religion, art (or anything) is silly--good shit happens, bad shit happens; the good people lose their legs, the bad people are protected, and it all just sort of keeps happening until we die and, presumably, it all stops. But art and religion both say: no. Hard as it is to see sometimes, there is an order here. There is a meaning. There is a point.<br /><br />And if you look for it, maybe the meaning is here, at the finish line: this iconic, city-defining event that was the sight of such tragedy... is a marathon.<br /><br />I know a little bit about this. My brother is running the marathon today; I've run a couple myself, years back. Why has this event touched runners so much, especially those in this city? Because it's their home town, sure, and it's The Marathon, of course-- but there's something more.<br /><br />While runners are by and large a happy, geeky lot, a joyful rainbow of sexes and sizes and colors, a lot of runners who either live in or hail from Boston are (myself included) of Irish Catholic stock. And here's one thing you need to know about the Irish Catholic: we tend not to be the largest, or the brawniest. We don't hit the grand slam. We don't throw the knockout punch.<br /><br />But we sure can run. Our gift is in putting one foot in front of the other. Again and again and again and again and again.<br /><br />&nbsp;In other words, we endure. The marathoner's glory is not in the perfect pitch, the perfect swing, the perfect shot-- It is in finding the endurance to finish. This is what we do, we Irish Catholics: we endure because we become stronger than what challenges us-- sometimes just barely, but in matters of endurance, just barely is enough.<br /><br />And as a region of Endurers, everyone in New England is a marathoner at heart. No one has to "explain" a marathon to a New Englander, and if they tried, it'd go something like this: "…you want me to do WHAT? Wake up at the crack of dawn, in the freezing cold, and go run like twenty miles-- and once I get there I gotta run six MORE? Ahhh, Christ, what the hell -- let's get on with it. Oh Sweet Jesus this is gonna suck." And, of course, we'd all do it again next year.<br /><br />If you're not one of us, all I can say is: don't ask.<br /><br />To those who perpetrated (or now find inspiration in) last year's events, I have a news flash: it didn't work. Boston survived you. And walking around the city yesterday it became clear to me that Bostonians, and runners, are also beginning to thrive.<br /><br />I saw it everywhere. People are smiling. People are hopeful. The sun is out. The spirit is back. Daffodils in shop windows everywhere, delicate and tissue-thin, yet strong enough to survive months of winter and push their way through frozen ground.<br /><br />&nbsp;If I ever see Dzokhar, I'll tell him that. I'll tell him this too:<br /><br />You never really stood a chance. Not here, against a city full of marathoners. See, all you brought this place was hardship-- and we own hardship. We cry through it, we laugh through it; while it wounds us, we learn to find pride, and sometimes even a kind of beauty, in the scars.<br /><br />Mostly, though… whether they be real or artificial, we keep putting one foot in front of the other. Hot days or cold, good days or bad. And you know what? Sometimes it just sucks, and we don't see the point. But we do it. Again and again and again and again and again. (Sometimes it's even fun.) And before you know it, young man, you'll have faded into the rearview of our lives, a sad footnote to a glorious day in this city.<br /><br />And you? You'll just be an another Old Man Still In Federal Prison.<br /><br />&nbsp;Say Hi to Whitey for us. Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-85289112895748891772013-06-10T13:44:00.000-07:002014-04-21T19:22:25.793-07:00The Flip: a lesson about casting.So I read an article about "Perfect Technologies" a while back.<br /><br />The gist of the thesis is that some things, once invented, can't really be improved upon. As I remember it, the purest example of a Perfect Technology is the hammer: one day, eons ago, some caveman tied a rock to the end of a stick, and voila. It's been refined, sure, but the essential design of the hammer is unchanged. Humans will always need a thing to bang on other things, and that thing-banger will always be the hammer. Years from now, there will be hammers in space.<br /><br />I would add the book.<br /><br />Now, no-- I'm not about to launch into a misty Lament For the Old Days. But here's the thing: by design, a book needs to be held-- so, by design, a book engages a second sense. While adding one's sense of touch to the experience of reading my seem like a small thing, I'd suggest the opposite. There's a specific feeling to being on page eight of a novel-- the heft of the book is in one's right hand, and that heft communicates that your journey has just begun. And as every book-lover knows, there are few experiences as exhilarating as being pages from the end of an epic novel, when your hands urge you: <i>keep going. The end of the journey is close. </i><br /><br />I could go on: about the durability of a thing that can be dropped, stepped on, lost in the sand, drenched in coffee (or wine...) and still fulfill its function; about the unique tactile memory contained in each book, how the feel and weight and typeface and scent of a college textbook brings one back to the classroom-- or, in some magical cases, the dorm room of one's first love.<br /><br />And in each case the point's the same: swiping one's finger along a pane of glass ain't the same thing and never will be. To Kids These Days, I say: your loss.<br /><br />Why am I telling you this, and what does it have to do with your acting career? Here's what: the same is true of an old-school printed headshot with a resume attached to the back. Looking at an actor's "pic and res" used to be the same visual-tactile experience as reading a book, and I can tell you now that the shift away from them, while streamlining the submission process for all concerned, is for the most part a decidedly unfortunate development for an actor.<br /><br />Back in my picture-pulling days, my personal technique was to start with a stack of headshots on my lap. I could work with a stack four or five inches high, quickly flipping each headshot up into a vertical position against my chest, until one caught my eye-- at which point I'd effortlessly do The Flip, flipping it over with my left hand to peruse the "Res" on the back.<br /><br />&nbsp;I've done it countless times: no, no, no, no, no, no, no-- oh-whats-this??? Flip.<br /><br />The design of the headshot/resume -- the Perfect Technology of it-- encouraged the flip. As with a book, the technology of the pic-and-res brought the users' hands into the process, so that "the flip" was as much a part of the process as "the glance." The Flip's revelation of <i>who you were</i> as an actor was a natural interaction with the <i>what-you-look-like</i> first impression of the headshot. No more.<br /><br />Here's a sad truth: after glancing at, say, one's five thousandth headshot, one gets jaded, and the temptation to power through submissions and just get on with it grows strong. With an old-school pic-and-res, there is a physical limit to how quickly one can browse; with electronic submissions I'm not sure such a limit even exists, for the eye scans these "thumbnail photos" at a breathtaking clip. I cannot imagine being a young casting associate whose only experience of with submissions is electronic. (Again, to the young casting associates I say: you mean you've never spent an evening tearing open envelope after envelope, sorting each one, filling an office floor with stacks of submission "types?" Your loss.)<br /><br />&nbsp;I know this because I've taken myself out of mothballs and have been doing just this for the past week. And I can tell you that no matter how well-designed the website, "click to view resume", followed by "scroll-to-view", then another "click to return to thumbnails", is a pain in the ass.<br /><br />I am a fan of actors. And not surprisingly, I'm a particular fan of training. Still, after days of looking at over a thousand submissions, I have a confession to make: in some cases, I made a decision on an actor without "clicking to view resume."<br /><br />&nbsp;Back in the day I would never, ever have skipped The Flip on any actor I was marginally interested in considering. In most cases, that decision was to pass.<br /><br />But as time wore on, in a few cases... yes. I called an actor in based on their headshot alone. That's entirely new for me. And one of those actors was cast. (For the record, that person was wonderful. He was cast for his talent IN ADDITION to his look.)<br /><br />Takeaway: your headshot needs to be SPECIFIC.<br /><br />My pal Fern Orenstein at ABC always says "I don't want to see pictures of actors," and I'm starting to agree. Your picture should say one thing, and one thing only, and that thing needs to be specific to YOU (not simply "…hey! I'm another actor in a blue v-neck t-shirt!"), and where you best fit in that discouragingly large ocean of actors you swim in.<br /><br />Good news: that guy I called in, the one who was cast? Yes, it ended up he had a good amount of talent (and TRAINING!) (ahem), and he'd done some stuff. But but but… I didn't know that when I called him in. For all I knew, he could have had no resume at all. To you beginning actors, the dreaded "white space" on a resume isn't the Scarlet A it used to be.<br /><br />Provided your shot is wonderful. And specific. And you. Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-3662144702296837542013-04-16T15:10:00.000-07:002014-04-21T19:07:24.594-07:00Some thoughts for my non-Bostonian friends.As you probably know by now, Patriot's Day is a holiday in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Pretty much everyone's off.<br /><br />And while many Bay Staters do call the day by its name, most of my friends called it Marathon Day.<br /><br />&nbsp;And every year, on Marathon Day, the Red Sox play a home game at 11AM. (For those so inclined --and most are-- the Cask 'n Flagon, the classic sports bar in the shadow of the Green Monster, opens for business at 11. I hear there's a line.) The game's unusual start time is set to coincide with the Marathon, allowing fans to leave the game and wander into Kenmore Square to cheer on the marathoners.<br /><br />A typical game will get out around two PM; most people walk through the square, following the marathon route onto Boylston Street, and the finish line. They'll arrive around 2:30.<br /><br />They can't help it; they're drawn there. In all of New England, the center of gravity on Marathon Day is Boylston street. IF the weather's right (and, honestly, even if it isn't), no place on earth, not Times Sqaure nor New Orleans, offers a better pub crawl than Boylston street on Marathon Day.<br /><br />My friends and I would start at Division 16 before moving down the street, stuffing our way into bar after crowded bar, grabbing a round in each before returning to the street to cheer the runners on. By journey's end, it'd be close to six PM - just in time to cut through the Public Gardens, up the Commons, past the State House and down the backside of Beacon Hill to the Boston Garden, where either the Bruins or the Celtics always seemed to have a home game a home game at night.<br /><br />For a visitor to the city, it's a glorious way to spend a day and really understand what makes Boston the special place it is. To a sports fan, Marathon Day is a little bit of Heaven on Earth.<br /><br />Bostonians bristle at the notion that theirs is not a world class city. (Truth be told, Bostonians bristle at a lot of things-- but that's another tale.). But they fail to see the affection in these jests, for the size of the city is at the heart of Boston's charm. "I Left My Heart In San Francisco" has the romance, "New York, New York" is timeless, but "Dirty Water" is pure Boston-- a low-tech, rowdy stomp of a song that seems to say: "this may be the deal here, but it's ours. And in in our own way, we love it just the way it is."<br /><br />To the rest of the world, it's Monday. But it's a Big Day in Boston, for it's Marathon Day, and if the weather's good (and even if it isn't)… no matter what else is going on in your life, all is right with the world. You can't even bounce a check that day (bank holiday, dontcha know).<br /><br />Why am I telling you all this? Because Patriot's Day is Boston's day, God dammit. The city's own Special Day, when Boston - not New York or LA or London or anywhere - is the best place on the planet to be.<br /><br />And whichever coward did this stained this day. For years to come.<br /><br />Like all deep stains, today's ugliness will fade, but it will never really wash out. In addition to the sox game and the marathon, Patriot's Day in Boston will have new rituals: Moments of silence, tributes, prayers.<br /><br />This is, of course, as it should be. But to this Calvinist New Englander (if not by home then by ancestry), this day is a sucker-punch reminder of The Way Of The World: if you have something simple, something unstained, something that's just plain good-- someone, somewhere, wants to ruin it.<br /><br />I want to say that the best way to honor the day will be to dance. Go to the Flask, cheer the Sox, cheer the runners, do the pub crawl. Treasure the one carefree day. But somehow, that doesn't feel right. At least not now. But adding another day of mourning to our collective calendar feels wrong too.<br /><br />I don't know what to do. And that angers me that I even have to contemplate it.<br /><br />Here on Boston's Day. Patriot's Day. Marathon Day. Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-8397747625086631592012-07-10T13:45:00.000-07:002014-04-21T19:23:11.668-07:00Monday, 9:20 AM. It's Day One, and I'm late. This is what happens when one travels a New Route in LA. I'm berating myself ("Rookie move! Rookie Move!!") and am in road-rage mode against anyone not speeding but it doesn't help because apparently I'm the winner of the hit-every-red-light lottery (on Venice Blvd? Really??) so I do the side-street shuffle to Van Ness where I Dukes-of-Hazard it over those aggravating speed bumps and I'm so focused I don't even giggle at the sign that says "Speed Humps" (yeah baby!!!) and thank Christ I FINALLY MAKE A LIGHT and I blast across Melrose and into the parking structure.... And just like that, I'm back. Season four. I landed in LA on July 4 after ten uninterrupted weeks in the Northeast. The re-entry has been surreal: everywhere, reminders that this is indeed Los Angeles. Where I live. Kind of. For most of the year. This is my car; this is the bright sun; this is my favorite spot for a beer. The return to routine feels --I don't know how else to say it-- strange. Once again, swiping my ID through the studio gate. Once again, a warm "welcome back!" from the guard. Once again hustling over to stage eight, only to find they've moved our trailers to free up parking spaces for those American Horror Story-ers. (Bastards!) I've done all this before, of course, so I guess it's this: one never imagines these little wonderful things will become habit. And it ends up the setup for the first shot took a while, so I'm not even late. I take it as a sign, and relax, and let in the strangeness-- this deja-vu of the returning senior, the "new-only-not" feeling unique to one's first day back at school as a vet. Strangest, though, is how quickly the newness fades. After all the hugs, the hello's, the "welcome backs," (and a few awkward "...you're back?? I mean-- You're back!! Hey! Great!!"), it's suddenly as if we'd all been right here, doing this, yesterday. Perhaps it's due to experience, or so many familiar faces: our turnover is, apparently, remarkably low. We've got a new crew member, fresh from Mad Men, who remarks that our show is famed for its tight crew and easy days. Easy? Easy??? (Well, OK, that's true: we haven't had many 20-hour days. ) (And I cannot imagine a 20-hour day on Mad Men.) Victor (our genius DP) points out that very few people ever see Season Four on a single show. So this is how it feels four years in: at four years in, you answer questions from the New Guys; at four years in, you find you're chatty with pretty much everyone. (Except Miguel Ferrer - I still think of him as that intense dude in Traffic so he scares me a little. We just say hi.) To you, this all may seem like a given and not strange at all, but to me... I don't know. It's hard to define, beyond saying that it's nice to belong. But I can only dwell on the feeling for a moment-- rehearsal's up for the big scene. Back to work. Which feels nice too. Speaking of The Scene, a quick acting tale from Day One: After a couple of quick walk-and-talks, the first Big Scene of the day --remember, we're talking Day One of Episode One after two months off-- is a flashback. A flashback that is a CONTINUOUS LINK from a very, very tense, cliffhanger scene shot TEN WEEKS AGO. It will be the very first shot of the season for our stars, here at 10 AM after two months of travel and family and birthdays and reunions. (The script, if you're curious, came in on Friday.) Wanna know what we get for rehearsal and prep? For the first Big Scene here on a Big Network Show? A blocking rehearsal. One. Blocking rehearsal. Then it's back to the trailers, where we have twenty minutes to move from Vacation Mode to Big Drama mode. Oh, and since we're a little behind, once the cast is on set it'll move quickly. Grab a master, push in on a few closeups, move on. YES, I know: we're not talking Long Day's Journey Into Night here. It's a television crime procedural. A television crime procedural that's seen be fifteen million people a week. One's acting, for better or worse, judged by fifteen million people a week Funny, how that can creep into an actor's head right about at the moment of "...aaaaand, ACTION." The lesson(s)? Experience counts. The scene's gonna work because it will feel seamless. The seamless continuity works only because the character continuity works. The character continuity works because the actor (and the coach...) (ahem) have lived with it for so long and understand the job. You get the idea. So, finally, I leave you with my constant reminder about this work we do: think it's easy? You try it. Actually, if you haven't already, I truly hope you do. Because it's awesome. And, yes: strange. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YWWsw54EaQ0/T_yT34Bs5WI/AAAAAAAAABs/tq_LAiia0_8/s1600/DAY%2BTWO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YWWsw54EaQ0/T_yT34Bs5WI/AAAAAAAAABs/tq_LAiia0_8/s400/DAY%2BTWO.jpg" height="155" width="400" /></a></div>Day Two. Emerging from the sea, take 4. Trust me, it only LOOKS warm.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-10907791326671562652012-02-22T22:30:00.000-08:002012-02-22T22:33:06.759-08:00My favorite oldieMINERS<br /><br />So you've started to dread holidays because you're still not a famous actor. <br /><br />And it's becoming just too painful to explain why you're still not, "...after all this time?"<br /><br />In fact, every time you try to justify your thus-far-anonymous existence in LA or New York to your family, well, you always leave such conversations feeling worse than when you entered them --and you enter into them, as your family does, with the best of intentions. Yet attempts to make them understand the path you've chosen result in frustration, disappointment, and, sometimes, isolation and pain. <br /><br />It's not your loved ones' fault: in recent years they've been so inundated with information (and misinformation) about the inner workings of Hollywood that they engage in such discussions assuming a knowledge that they actually lack. Honestly: did you ever imagine you'd be discussing box-office grosses with your parents? And eventually the prospect of reciting your padded resume to all who ask, followed by a series of humiliating "I-know-what-you-should-do" conversations prompted by some invariably unflattering comparison to a co-worker's relative who also acts, cause you to contemplate spending your holidays alone. And that ain't right.<br /><br />Next time, try offering this analogy:<br /><br />You're a gold miner. <br /><br />Like all gold miners, you're a dreamer. (But you don't have to tell them that. And don't ever be ashamed of it. The world needs dreamers.)<br /><br />Dreamers climb the highest mountain; Gold miners mine the richest mine. Otherwise, as any dreamer will tell you, what's the point? <br /><br />So, like all real miners, off to Alaska you go. That's where the gold is. Being the best gold miner in Nebraska is a tin crown, at best.<br /><br />And until the world hears otherwise, you're just another schmuck on the mountain. When you strike gold, you'll let them know. <br /><br />In the meantime....<br /><br />Don't try to share with those back home the specifics about your days. Your little ups, your little downs. People who've never been on the mountain don't understand it up there and never will. Not their fault; they can't.<br /><br />(A rare exception: some miners leave behind those who truly believe in their dream-- better, those that believe in their ability to achieve it. If you're such a fortunate soul, you can --and should-- ask your supporters for whatever support they can offer. In helping you stay on the mountain they're dreaming, too. And they're the first people you pay back when you strike it rich. And, sure, tell them about your victories, cry with them about your defeats. But tell them not to spread it around.)<br /><br />As to the rest: don't listen to their story of their friend, "the lawyer," who goes down to the local creek with a plastic pan on Saturdays ("...and really, he's pretty good at it. You two should meet."). He's not a gold miner, he's a lawyer who likes to play around with the pan, which is fun and not at all risky if, like him, you know that come Monday morning you're going to be at your desk and not along a crowded riverbank in freezing water with your pants rolled up. <br /><br />You know the difference; they never will. They're afraid of the mountain, and for good reason....<br /><br />Life on the mountain sucks. It's cold, or blistering hot; you spend what little money you have on mining supplies; worse, because it's a mining town, prices are gouged on everything else. Eventually you will have to take all manner of demeaning work merely to survive. No Carribbean Christmas, no 401-K, no health insurance for you, no, you need that money for a seventy-dollar trip to the grocery and coin-op laundries that charge six dollars a load. On the mountain, among the other miners, this is an accepted part of the bargain; down in the valley it sounds like failure. Remember: keep the day-to-day to yourself.....<br /><br />And don't ever, ever, be swayed by the advice of those next to you along the river. No one knows exactly where the gold is, especially not them. And advise they will-- on the size of your pan, the shape of your pan, your sluicing technique, your position on the river (yet they will never, ever tell you if they hear rumor of a better spot); if you listen, you'll begin to doubt your every move, and quickly grow discouraged. Remember: if any of their suggestions were effective, they wouldn't be knee-deep in mud next to you.<br /><br />Any advice whatsoever from anyone who's never been on the mountain is worse than useless. <br /><br />On the other hand, advice from those few who actually walk off the mountain wealthy can be invaluable, but all they'll really tell you is this: keep at it. Because they know...<br /><br />There is no justice on the mountain. Some pan for years, only to see those who stake claims yards away strike it rich; others find gold their first day out. This can be crippling to old-timers still chipping away.<br /><br />And sometimes those who strike a little gold can be the harshest of all on their fellow miners. That's okay; they're just afraid their vein will dry up. And they're ashamed of all their days as a failure, which is a pity (more on this later).<br /><br />All miners are, more or less, offered the same deal: in most cases, the mountain will win. (But you know that long odds never deter the true dreamer.) What your friends in the valley will never know is the cruelty in that bargain, how, as time goes on, every day becomes difficult. Every day there's a summoning of energy that must occur for you to crawl outside and return to the river. Every day you'll curse your tiny, decaying tent, you'll find it harder to smile when someone just above or below you strikes gold; every sunny card from friends and family not on the mountain announcing a new home, a new birth, will cut a little deeper, and every day you'll find it a little harder to ignore the gnawing thought that perhaps it isn't the mountain, it's you. And if you manage to survive up there for years without even a nugget (and you might) a funny paradox takes root inside you, paralyzing you as it grows: the longer you're on the mountain, the harder it is to stay or leave. If you stay, the hardships are harder, the sacrifices seem more meaningless; at the same time, well, you've been up here this long, and so you cling to the miner's one life-preserver thought: just one big strike and all this will be worth it. Then, if I want to, I'll leave. <br /><br />And yet every day you'll see fellow miners leave the mountain. Some just walk off at night, under cover of darkness; others, overcome with exhasstion and grief, must be carried by family who load them into Volvos and Audis, triumphant in their sympathy. Young miners will scoff at such sites, for surely, they think, they share nothing with this weakling who simply doesn't "have it;" older miners either stand quietly, offering a moment of understanding and respect, or turn away, haunted by the thought that that spectacle should be, and perhaps soon will be, them.<br /><br />And once in a great while, one of two things happens: the first, of course, is signaled by a banshee whoop!, an animal cry instantly understood by all miners: someone hits it. This is followed by a breathtaking stampede of hangers-on, well-wishers, gold-diggers, photographers, even, all wanting nothing more, ultimately, than proximity to the Winner and with it the possibility that some of that gold dust will rub off onto them-- or at least will buy them some six-degrees-of-fame free drinks or sex at the saloon. Depending on a fellow miner's frame of mind that day, such spectacles can be heartening ("see, it does happen"), or heartbreaking ("... but not to me.").<br /><br />The second thing? That's the rarest of all: <br /><br />someone walks down off the mountain, empty-handed. And smiling. <br /><br />Something happened to them, one night.... maybe the newest young miner to earn the affections of the local suppliers did them in,,, or the latest baby shower invitation from a friend down in the valley... something... and some switch flipped, deep inside them, and they realized, awake in their raggedy tent as the sun comes up, the secret the mountain holds closest and reveals only to those who can become still enough to hear it: although they're leaving empty-handed, they didn't fail. And even though they can never explain this secret to those in the valley, they won't have to. That this strange, draining, heartbreaking life that they knew, this struggle, had its own awful beauty that those who stayed in the valley (and even those who struck gold right out of the gate) can never know. Bittersweet, too, that all those days that they'd cursed themselves and bullied themselves and agreed with all the whispers of failure that seemed to surround them, they'd failed to understand that they'd already won. They won the moment they'd staked their claim and set up their tent and waded into that cold water not even knowing how to hold the damned pan. <br /><br />Or, maybe, they won the moment they stepped onto the bus to Alaska.<br /><br />What did they finally, finally hear from that quiet voice that morning as they watched the sun come up? That through those scorching, humbling days and freezing nights, they'd been living a dream, and that dreams have lives, too, and deaths. And that while their dream slipped gently into the night, it lived a full life, and that smile they wear as they walk the trail off the mountain comes from a lack of regret, and peace. <br /><br /><br /><br />None of us has any way of knowing whether we'll leave the mountain rich or poor; my hope is that either way you walk off happy, or at least content. In the meantime, whenever friends or family or boyfriends or girlfriends or neighbors ask "how's it going," tell them this:<br /><br />"Think of me as a gold miner. When I strike it rich, I promise you, you'll know. Until then, you don't even have to ask. Just assume I'm still on the mountain with a pan in my hand, digging around in the mud for a dream. Wish me luck."<br /><br /><br />Peter Kelley<br />New York, NY<br />November, 2002<br /> Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-50416329877595382282011-07-06T13:23:00.000-07:002011-07-06T19:05:41.714-07:00Some tardy (non-acting) thoughts on the Fourth.They look so small from up here. Smaller even than you'd have thought.<br /><br />Yeah yeah I know. I gotta back up.<br /><br />Perhaps because it's an expectation-free holiday, I have a fondness for the Fourth of July. I love Christmas, too (I am the Christmas Ho, after all), but we want Christmas to go a certain way. The tree, the gifts, the music, we need it all to be just so; for Christmas, we even make requests of the weather (snow!). <br /><br />But not the Fourth. You can go to a barbecue, or not; head away for the weekend, or not; gather with family or simply stay put. Up to you.<br /><br />Me-- well, you know. I love fireworks. Love 'em. But this year I'd decided to head to LA for the weekend, and the return fares on the Fourth itself were simply to cheap to pass up. Since arrival in JFK in time to make a fireworks display would have meant leaving LA at an ungodly hour, I decided to gamble on the next best thing: a late afternoon flight that, if the route was right and the weather held, just might put me over some fireworks. It'd be a new perspective, and fun.<br /><br />We push off fifteen minutes late, have a long taxi (TWO Delta flights get the call in front of us! Why? Why??), and aren't wheels-up until almost five. I curse American Airlines as I feel my plan slipping away. <br /><br />But I do have a tendency to struggle against trusting in Faith.<br /><br />The sun sets as we cross the Rockies... we clear a cloudy stretch... and we're somewhere over the Heartland (Iowa?) when I first see it: a small cluster of lights which can only be a town. (Thanks to the pervasiveness of the Sodium-Halogen streetlight, there's a distinct look to urban areas, even minor ones, from up here.) Then, just off to one side... there... no bigger than a single spark from a sparkler, really, so small I'm not even sure... until there's another. And this one's red. A tiny bright pin-pop that quickly fades. <br /><br />Fireworks.<br /><br />And I suddenly ache to be there, wherever There is: some baseball diamond, some fairground outside of the town, sitting on a blanket, looking up at the night. The town's now sliding underneath the wing and out of view, but no matter: here's a slightly larger town, and over there, another... and if you let your eyes sort of... drift... these tiny, colorful puffs dot the land below. Pop, fade. Pop, fade. Happy Birthday, America. Happy Birthday, us.<br /><br />Now, an incredible turn of good fortune: in the distance but coming up fast, Chicago! What are the odds? A major city, at just the right time-- and on a clear night! I'm gonna get my Big City fireworks after all.<br /><br />I notice two concentrated bursts that are busier than the others --the big displays-- but, funny thing: from here, they're not that much different than the smaller ones. Not much at all. Still I watch, for the Grand Finales will be impressive, surely. And they do get a bit brighter... but then they simply stop.<br /><br />I settle back in my seat. I'm depressed, a little, let down, a little... but there's something else, a thing I've felt before; a vague feeling of what I can only call profundity that's making itself known. And since I am a religious person I believe that to be the gentle nudging of God. <br /><br />"Oh, come on, what--" I think, "can't I just sit here and feel depressed?" Fine. OK, Universe, I'll bite: what am I missing? Think, Peter.<br /><br />Personally, I go back and forth on the whole There Are No Accidents concept. But tonight, well, the timing could be chalked up to chance (but that delay at the gate...), the clear sky, to predictable weather patterns...<br /><br />...but the good stuff outside the window is NEVER on my side of the plane. <br /><br />So. I got the Big Show, like I requested... but from up here, there really wasn't much difference... <br /><br />Ah. Got it. I'm a little slow sometimes, but in the end I get it.<br /><br />It's one of my great flaws, see, this Wishing I Was Somewhere Else. And I can imagine myself on that rural baseball diamond, pining for Chicago (or that plane flying way up high), not appreciating what was lighting up the sky right over my head, losing the moment while not realizing that, depending on your seat, that change-everything difference isn't such a difference at all.<br /><br />Which leads to: is it like this about everything? Beauty, wealth, accomplishment? When you're Up Here, far enough from it, do all our seemingly-important differences grow narrow? All these distinctions we measure by, and value so highly-- success or failure, rich or poor, hot or not? <br /><br />And I wonder if this is how it will be when we Depart: a flight that doesn't follow the curve of the earth but flies straight, soaring off while behind us everything slowly... fades. <span style="font-style:italic;">What's that? What kind of car did I drive?</span> From up here you can't even recognize cars. (Although a bit of practical advice from a lot of night flying: have bright headlights.) So, maybe, none of this matters so much.<br /><br />No. It's this: ALMOST nothing matters. For as I think on it, I come back to where I always come back: love.<br /><br />I'll miss that a whole lot. I wouldn't have a panicky urge to claw out of my plane just to jump back down to get my car; I'd want to get back to the people. Sure, I'd want to experience a little more. But I've experienced plenty. Really, I'd want to feel a little more. That's what I'm gonna miss.<br /><br />None of us have taken that particular flight yet, though we all have a reservation. But we already know that the feelings won't fade. As for the rest... perspective.<br /><br />So, Universe, thanks for this-- and, ya know, worth the Holiday flight. A new experience, and a lesson learned.<br /><br />But next year, I'm going to a Big Show.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-46401855738092344332011-05-08T22:39:00.001-07:002011-06-05T10:05:07.633-07:00A few thoughts about home (what else?)<span style="font-style:italic;">"Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that LAND doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts."</span><br /> --Gone With The Wind.<br /><br /><br />Nine PM. Back at Terminal Four at LAX. And, indeed, where better to finally write to you than the Admirals Club?<br /><br />And, no, not gloating. At all. The kind of chap who's a gloater, see, would have MADE that 4:20PM flight, and not had to spend his last few hours in LA gazing out at at incoming and outgoing air traffic.<br /><br />Anyway. Sorry for dropping off the radar for a bit. I've been working on two (!) Scene-of-the-months (and they're winners), and I didn't want to write 'til they were done... but here I am. Thinking. (...and, in truth, drinking as well. Never good, but free wine will do that to a man.)<br /><br /><br />I am by ancestry Irish, mostly. And as such, am a member of a culture for whom bonding to a place, a home, is a defining link in the DNA.<br /><br />But I currently pay rent on three storage facilities. I am having mail held in two cities. My car keys are with a friend. I offer a quick nod of acquaintance to the ID kid at the TSA line at LAX (who, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, is the twin of Jake Gyllenhal), and he says: "where you been?" I have not boarded a plane in about two months and realize that is my longest flight-gap in over three years.<br /><br />And standing here, gazing into the mirror of the admittedly lovely restroom in the Admiral's Club... I look tired. (When it didn't matter, I was often called "young-looking." Really, who gives a shit? Now, an embarrassing truth: I do. And I'm not, any more.) I don't think people are meant to live like this. At least not people like me.<br /><br />But... what if I'm wrong? I never thought I'd get good at this life, but. No matter what it is, we get good at what we do. And I don't know how it happened but this is what I do.<br /><br />Is there ever a moment? When a person looks in a mirror and realizes that, perhaps, This Is It, For Me? (and, if so, shouldn't such a moment have come earlier in life?) Is there a too-yong part of me fighting this, protesting that no, there's Something Else? <br /><br />Besides. Amongst us humans there are nomads-- entire cultures defined by their ability to never put down roots. As one of the Concord Poets (Emerson?) pointed out, migratory birds never return to last year's nest. Thing is, how does one know such a thing about one's self?<br /><br />Do you?<br /><br />Outside, in a ballet of slow-motion, whale-like grace, a Quantas 747 is pushed onto the taxiway. Strange, how silent it is behind glass. In truth, I love this part. I love wondering where that plane is going, what lives are moving forward. I do love forward motion. <br /><br />And now, quietly in the background, Miles Davis. Flamenco Sketches, off "Kind of Blue." One of the most beautiful pieces of music ever recorded.<br /><br />Again: what is it, exactly, with life? How can it be beautiful and mysterious and lonely and hard and joyful all at once? I thought only women possessed that capability...<br /><br />I owe you an apology, I think, because this was heading somewhere when it started (I swear it was). But it ended... here.<br /><br />So. I'm in NYC for a month or so, with a few Boston weekends in the mix. I'd love to see you-- so if you're looking for a class in NYC or Boston let me know.<br /><br />Actually, shoot me an email either way. I'd love to hear your thoughts on all this. I really would.<br /><br />Thanks for reading,<br /><br /><br />PKPeter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-90025766358015646492011-03-01T09:59:00.000-08:002011-03-01T15:26:15.374-08:00Some thoughts on my last day at 601<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CXFXZlgMRTs/TW2AUaj_tKI/AAAAAAAAABg/wZvLNNgCTlI/s1600/601%2BNIGHT.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CXFXZlgMRTs/TW2AUaj_tKI/AAAAAAAAABg/wZvLNNgCTlI/s400/601%2BNIGHT.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579256601597949090" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">the view from my ex-office</span><br /><br /><br />I saw your picture today.<br /><br />Yes, sir, yours. In black and white. You're sporting that full, proud head of hair in your headshot, staring out at the world with your best "you know you want this" look. <br /><br />Now, you're a little... older. And thicker. And bald. It happens.<br /><br />Oh, I saw yours too, missy-- you too with the hair, the leather jacket, and nothing but a lacy black bra underneath(!), looking for all the world like The Hot Extra in a Van Halen video. <br /><br />Now you've got a different last name, a kid (two?), and don't really act much anymore. It happens. <br /><br />And I saw you, too, my friend. I wasn't really prepared to see you today. You were alive then. <br /><br />Now you're not. It happens.<br /><br />I moved out of my office this weekend. As some of you know, my awesome and entirely too lenient landlords at 601 W. 26th in Manhattan had, when I shifted my base of operations to LA, offered me a sweetheart deal on my office, with the understanding that if a "full-price" taker came along, well, that was that.<br /><br />How come we never, ever think these things will come to pass? I'm still in LA, mostly, and simply cannot justify full freight on my amazing office, so it was time to go. (But I will be back.) I'd been slow to respond, and February's a short month-- next thing you know I'm realizing that I've got ten days to clear out. Oh, I was prepared for the hassle: if you're an actor, chances are you're a "mover" too (funny, the things we get good at)... but.<br /><br />What I was not at all prepared for was how difficult it would be inside.<br /><br />My mom's a hoarder. Foolishly, I thought I was immune to this; I am cured of that misconception when I open a desk drawer and find it stuffed to capacity with paper napkins. (Hey-- they give 'em to you every time you get, like, <span style="font-style:italic;">anything</span> at the commissary on the 8th floor-- and, ya know, Free Napkin! It just seems like a waste to chuck 'em.) (I'm right about this, BTW, and NOT crazy.) It takes about ten minutes to realize that A) I've been in this office longer than I'd thought, and B) there's been a whole lot of hoardin' going on. Time for some hard decisions. A little tough love.<br /><br />So I labor. I agonize over each keep-it/chuck-it moment, and there are hundreds of them (How is this possible in a 10X10 office??). And in the midst of this Hoarder Hell... I finally arrive at my headshot files. <br /><br />You should know this: if you have ever, ever walked into my office with a headshot, in any city, at any time... I still have it. I resolve to thin this herd by at least a half. It's ridiculous, really, all these crates. (As a side note, I'm saddened by the gaps in my recent collection due to the lazy proliferation of "oh let me just send it to you electronically." Do yourself a favor: print your headshot. Pay the money. Get the richest, most vivid headhsots you can, and carry them with you, and give them to people like me. It will pay off.)<br /><br />So I spend the rest of the day staring. At you. So many headshots. Each one the representation of a dream. All these little triumphs, little heartbreaks.<br /><br />Here's something I bet you think isn't true, but it is: I remember you. Whether we met on Harrison Ave or Babcock Street or East Broadway or South Street or Greene Street or 440 Lafayette or 6th Ave or Greenwich street or any of the other countless rooms I've rented over the years... I remember you.<br /><br />And in remembering you then, I remember me then, too. Who I was. The sky I saw. The world I lived in. <br /><br />And here's what I realize, as today's sky darkens and the lights of Manhattan outside my gorgeous window (sigh) twinkle to life and I'm still sitting, overwhelmed, amongst a sea of headshots: I'm proud of you. Because in the end, whatever the result, I think it is the attempt that counts. I believe that. I do. And I was a part of that and I'll bet I didn't say thank you but I am. Thankful. More than you know.<br /><br />It's fully dark when I come to realize one more thing: I'm keeping your headshot. In fact, I'm not throwing out a single one. <br /><br />IN those rare moments that I share, I sometimes tell people that what I want most in my life --my deepest fantasy, my porn-- is photo albums. Or, more to the point, to have a life where photo albums would exist. And every day I carry a little ache with me that I don't.<br /><br />But sitting in that dark office I realize that I do.<br /><br />You're my photo album.<br /><br /><br />601 W. 26th St.<br />Feb 28, 2011Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-56048644761977988032010-11-29T03:19:00.000-08:002010-11-29T12:50:05.173-08:00Some thoughts on Thanksgiving. And Thankfulness, and friendsWhen you live this Nomadic Life, it happens now and then: you vanish.<br /><br />Everyone in your life --at least everyone who thinks to wonder about it-- assumes that you're somewhere other than where you actually are. At that moment you could be anywhere, or nowhere at all. The wind of life has calmed and you are, for the moment, adrift: your course, for better or worse, is yours alone.<br /><br />Where I am is Del Mar, a sleepy surf town turned chi-chi beach community north of San Diego (and home, over the years, to various Kelleys). I'd come down for the holiday and realized, once here, that I wasn't really needed in LA until noon on Monday. We've got a spare house on the hill (long story), and, after saying my familial good-byes, rather than heading back up the coast I chose to stay. <br /><br />But something's not quite right, and it takes me a minute to place it: I'm walking funny. I'm moving fast, hands dug into packets, tilting against a sharp wind. It's a New Englander's walk, this, and its strange dislocation brings a thought I've not thought in years: it's a "cliffe-y" day. The phrase arrives as a memory; it brings a smile and warms me in that way that only nostalgia can. It's from years ago, learned from a grad school chum back in Boston who'd done his undergrad at Harvard, and the "cliffe" is meant to reference Radcliffe girls. Like Radcliffe girls, you see, a "cliffe-y" day is Bright But Cold. Ahem.<br /><br />One so seldom gets these days in Southern California. The vivid blue sky, the ocean a foreboding slate grey, flecked with whitecaps hair-tussled by the wind. It strikes me that the day and I are both out of place: we're Here, yes, but we're a better fit Back There. The thought brings a vague ache, which I trace back, as I so often do, to family. After all, it's Thanksgiving, and the iconography of the holiday has always run deep in me: the fire, warming against a shortening day, the day-long aroma of the great meal-- and, of course, family, gathered close.<br /><br />One of the wonderful advantages of family --one's actual, flesh-and-blood relatives--- is the ability of such relationships to endure a certain amount of what can best be understood as a kind of laziness: you love 'em, you don't; you're speaking to each other, you're not; no matter. They're still family and nothing will change that. And while we should nurture those relationships, well... even if we neglect them, come Thanksgiving, there's still a seat at a table, somewhere. <br /><br />But as one ages, one wants to create one's own table. (It's what your parents did, after all.) And if you live a life like mine you may not have yet succeeded in doing so. And if you haven't, you learn something else: the incredible generosity of a seat at a table, any table, that is set aside for you by friends. And when a seat at the table of friendship is be the only seat available, one's friendships grow valuable indeed.<br /><br />Because unlike family, friendship is always a choice. And like any relationship of choice, if left untended, it will simply fade. And that's a pity, but it seems epidemic of late. It has become so easy to simply not return the call, to blow off the party-- but as we do, bit by bit those wonderful friendships fade. <br /><br />This is what I'm thinking about as I drive along the coast later: my friends. Who have so often, over the years, become a fill-in family when I needed one most.<br /><br />If you know me, you know I've got a love-hate relationship to all that San Diego represents (when I lived here, I was a small, pale, druggie kid who didn't tan or surf well, a decidedly bad combination in the Land of the Beautiful). But this stretch of of the PCH, from Torrey Pines Park through San Diego's coastal north, late in the afternoon when the sun is low, grows only more beautiful to me over time. <br /><br />I'm headed to the E Street Cafe, a little coffeehouse in Encinitas that's retained the raggedy, surf-town vibe that most places in Fashionable North County have lost: hippie kids, elderly couples, and a few leathered, weathered Lost Causes that one sees in beach communities. On the drive up, I wasn't really sure why I came, but once I walk inside the place I know: I've got something to write.<br /><br />There's a singer, see, a portly fellow best described as a San Diego Cowboy --a kind of Wilfred-Brimley-by-way-of-David-Crosby, if that makes sense-- and as I walk in, he's singing a Beatles tune: "With a Little Help From My Friends."<br /><br />I do not think this coincidence. I am certain it is evidence of God. But to talk of God at a moment like this, it's best to talk first of Gratitude, and Thankfulness, especially as we're at the tail end of a holiday meant to honor the giving of thanks. <br /><br />Gratitude seems to have come into vogue lately. A good thing, to be sure, but in so doing it is often confused with thankfulness, which may not be quite the same thing. I've always understood thankfulness as an inter-human notion: I am thankful that you gave me a ride, or that you called me when I was feeling down. Gratitude is a deeper, less concrete notion; it has at its core, I think, an appreciation for What Is, for life itself as much as one's things in it, and requires an accompanying acknowledgement of one's incredible fortune to be a part of All That Is. As such, I think it's impossible to contemplate Gratitude without some acceptance of a Higher Power. Here's why: <br /><br />It could be argued that it's simply a matter of coincidence that I find sunsets beautiful. After all, it's only a sunset, nothing more than a refracting of light as the sun dips below the horizon-- it would occur without humanity to bear witness to it. I could be indifferent to it, I could be made nauseous at the sight of it. Instead, it brings me a kind of quiet joy. You too, I'm guessing. <br /><br />A fortunate coincidence? That we just happen to exist on a planet that happens to have this phenomenon that we happen to find beautiful? Perhaps... but. That feels to me wrong. In some way that I cannot articulate, it makes sense that the setting sun would please us. It feels right when I contemplate it; "righter" still when I experience it.<br /><br />I'd respectfully submit that the "right-feeling" is the presence of God inside me. And I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for the day that I've been given, for the God that produced it. <br /><br />So. Thankfulness and Gratitude. And friends.<br /><br />For all my wonderful friends, who are so crazy and baffling and loyal and wonderful that I may not even deserve them, I am thankful. More, I fear, than they know. And to God (or The Universe, if that helps), I am Grateful for the ability to care so deeply and appreciate my friends so very much. It is something that does not get said enough, I think. <br /><br /><br />It's dark out now. The cold snap that has settled over Southern California remains. Or maybe it's me-- maybe it's simply that my blood has finally grown thin. Either way, I'm already bracing for the quick walk to the car. But tonight, even in the chilly dark, I think I'll leave the top down.<br /><br />Speaking of thankfulness: thanks for reading.<br /><br />PK<br />Del Mar, CA<br />November, 2010Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-1561564890866499462010-11-16T15:27:00.000-08:002010-11-16T15:30:07.655-08:00Acting 101: A tale of Two EntrancesPeople sometimes ask what, exactly, I do on set. By way of an answer, here's a story - and a little Acting 101 brush-up. Which everyone needs, sometimes.<br /><br />DAY ONE of a new episode is always interesting. Everyone's shaking off the cobwebs of the previous episode (which we were working on 12 hours earlier), everyone's getting warmed into an entirely new story. As a result, we're often on the soundstage (the "Operations Center") on Day 1-- it's a controlled location, crews know their way around the space, and things can move quickly.<br /><br />This new episode is bookended by two scenes between Callen, our lead, and Hetty, the wizened "boss" of the investigators. More, they're set in the same location, and the staging is almost identical in each. Since they're both relatively simple "gets" involving only two characters, we'll start day one with these two scenes.<br /><br />But here's the thing: due to a number of logistical considerations, they'll be shot in reverse order. And since the story in the script covers a single day, that means that Callen's first entrance (a shot that will go off at 7:30AM, give or take) is meant to be at the tail end of a long, wearying day that ends the episode; as soon as that scene's done, we'll shoot the very first shot of the story, when none of the day's violent events will have yet occurred. <br /><br />Same actor, same entrance, completely different emotional moments. Two hours apart. Think it's easy? Try it.<br /><br />So we start with the wide. All looks good, except Callen is not quite entering with that heavy, "end-of-a-long-day" energy that the moment requires. In the focused momentum of getting that first shot, we've skipped a commonly overlooked part of an actor's prep: <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Moment Before</span><br /><br />It's a concept borrowed from the theatre, to be sure: essentially, the actor must ensure that the energy of their entrance is in keeping with the circumstances of the moment-- or, more specifically, <span style="font-style:italic;">the moment just before one's entrance</span>. Hence, "Moment Before." (Some of you may have learned this as "Given Circumstances", but it's the same concept. ) It's a simple idea-- but mastery of it is so, so much more critical to a film performance than theatre. <br /><br />Why? Two reasons: first, we often shoot the place you're <span style="font-style:italic;">leaving</span> days after the place you're <span style="font-style:italic;">going to</span>, and without doing this work you will never maintain continuity. Second, often a film or TV scene is so short that the entrance IS the scene, or a big part of it. Think: how many entrances and exits does a character make in a play, and how many in a film? So call it what you want-- Given Circumstances, Moment Before, makes no difference. The key to mastering it is the same:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">remember that every entrance is an exit, and every exit is an entrance. </span><br /><br />Like so many things in acting, you can notice this in action in life: when you're <span style="font-style:italic;">entering</span> your apartment, you're <span style="font-style:italic;">leaving</span> the hall. When you're entering a restaurant, you're leaving the sidewalk. And if you pay attention to the entrances and exits of others, you'll notice just how much of the "Moment Before" they carry with them.<br /><br />In this case, our work required no more than a 20-second conversation to shift Chris' emotional focus from where he was entering (the gymnasium) to where he was leaving (his office, at the end of a draining day). Since we'd already worked the scene itself, that "scene energy" would take over when it happened. There was no need to focus on the upcoming moment.<br /><br />Which seems counter-intuitive to some actors, but: imagine walking out of your apartment, fresh off a phone call with a debt collector, and now you're late, and life just really really sucks.... when there's Megan Fox (or Johnny Depp), <span style="font-style:italic;">passed out naked in front of your door</span>. <br /><br />Suddenly, that crappy phone call doesn't seem so important.<br /><br />So if that's your scene (and if it is, LUCKY YOU), you don't open the door with "here comes Megan/Johnny, can't wait!"; rather, you open it with "well, THAT sucked..." The sight of Megan/Johnny will then carry you into the present moment.<br /><br />It is understandable that an actor with a long day might overlook this. It's even more understandable that the director, who's rightfully focused on not getting behind on Day 1, is not going to slow down because of an entrance on the wide that may or may not even be used. The truth? If the actor hits their marks, connects on their lines, and all of the technical land mines that can sabotage a shot are avoided, then everyone will be happy, and we'll move on.<br /><br />Which is, on one level, as it should be: taken on its own, the specific energy of any single entrance a character makes is a minor thing, to be sure. But minor things add up. "So what," you say - "who will notice?"<br /><br />You will. The audience will. And over the arc of a season you'll notice that the show is demanding just a little less of you. <br /><br />But at 7:30AM on Day One, it's possible that everyone might miss it. Except the guy who's hired specifically to watch for these things. <br /><br />And if you don't have one of those guys --and chances are you don't-- then it's your job to remember: context. On an entrance, remember where you're coming from. On an exit, think about where you're going to. <br /><br />Because we'll notice.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-14291284610756764642010-10-18T15:56:00.000-07:002010-10-27T15:58:00.033-07:00My favorite scene(*one of) MY FAVORITE SCENE(s): A CASE STUDY<br /><br />PART 1: SOME BACKSTORY<br /><br />Funny how some conversations never really end-- they simply spin out of the orbit of one's life, only to return, comet-like, with some unmeasurable regularity. For me, "The Strong Film Scene", where I find them, and how to recognize them in the wild (as it were), has recently circled back into orbit. It's been the usual questions from actors, mostly. But then the other day I get this: "there really aren't any amazing film scenes. Not like there are in theatre."<br /><br />If you know me at all you know I can't let that go. <br /><br />The irony here is that I agree with the statement-- for an actor, an amazing film scene IS nothing like an amazing theater scene.<br /><br />It's better. And for a writer, it's harder to write.<br /><br />I have for years railed against the notion that challenging, quality writing exists mostly in theatre; that in contrast, there's an "emperor's new clothes" quality in writing for film and television, and the actors' work in front of the camera mainly involves investing the writing with a depth it does not, on its own, possess. The more I read strong screenplays, work the meatiest scenes, the more I respect the accomplishment of the writer, whose work is done, and the challenge for the actor, whose work (unlike in the theater) often must begin and end in a matter of days. <br /><br />But I digress.<br /><br />To those who'd asked about The Strong Film Scene, I was simply going to fire off a "Top Ten" compilation of my personal all-time favorite scenes (and since my "library" now stands at about 1,100 scenes, even that list was agonizingly difficult to assemble), but again: if you know me at all you know that's not how I roll. <br /><br />I decided instead on a Case Study. I'd send along a single scene, one that contains all my requisite characteristics of The Strong Film Scene-- then put it under a microscope to show what, exactly, makes it so strong.<br /><br /><br /><br />So what are characteristics of such scenes? There are several (characters I can HEAR and BELIEVE on the page is a characteristic that's becoming increasingly difficult to find...); for now, let's focus on two: ECONOMY and TENSION.<br /><br />ECONOMY<br /><br />The Overlord of the screenplay is page count. There is an unspoken truth Out Here that, no matter how solid a screenplay, Shorter is Better. It's 120 pages? Make it 110, and it's better. 98? Lets get to 94. Much to my surprise, I think I've finally drank the cool-aid on this-- because in my experience It's almost always true: inexperienced writers love to burn through pages with dialogue. So:<br /><br />The First Universal Quality of the Strong Film Scene: <span style="font-style:italic;">it accomplishes what it needs to accomplish without an excess of words</span>. A beautiful film scene will carry us emotionally from A to Z with an economy of dialogue.<br /><br />This does NOT mean it covers less emotional ground. Rather, it challenges the actor to do work which is distilled, sometimes even into a single moment. And when you see it on the page (and, later, brought to life), you realize how often words are used as crutches, by actors and writers alike.<br /><br />As some of you know, I'm originally from the theatre, and MAN was this a hard lesson to learn. But during my years lecturing at film schools, learn it I did. "Film is a visual medium," we'd drum into the Little Scorceses' heads. "Tell the story with pictures." <br /><br />So where does this leave dialogue? Superfluous? <br /><br />Nothing could be further from the truth. As any poet will tell you, when you place a restriction on words, each word you do use becomes far more valuable.<br /><br />As an example, Neil Simon (an under-rated playwright) does not, for the most part, film well. Why? No Tension-- at least not the kind that is of interest to us in film, which we'll get to in a minute-- but, also, all those words.<br /><br />Look - here's an example of "couple" tension:<br /><br />SHE walks in, slumps on the sofa. Sighs loudly. HE notices...<br /><br />HE<br />You OK?<br /><br />SHE<br />...Yeee-up.<br /><br />He stares at her for a beat, unsure. Then...<br /><br />HE<br />You sure? 'Cause--<br /><br />SHE<br />--I'm FINE. <br />(to herself)<br />God...<br /><br /><br />What's of interest here, of course, is what ISN'T said. And if the actors do the work, if they invest in what's underneath those simple words... well, that films like crazy. The camera invites the viewer in to the internal world of the actor-- what is that person really thinking? What do they really want? That can't happen on stage, at least not in the same way. We have the close-up to thank for that.<br /><br />But Neil Simon is a consummate writer for the stage. He creates a world in which people say what they think, and think what they say. Here's the same scene, "Simon-ized": <br /><br />HE<br />You OK?<br /><br />SHE<br />Yup.<br /><br />He stares at her for a beat.<br /><br />HE<br />You sure? 'Cause--<br /><br />SHE<br />--I'm FINE. <br />(then)<br />But you know what gets me? I mean you really want to know?<br />It's how for three MONTHS you've been coming in here, with that<br />"everything's OK" look..."<br /><br /><br />...and here comes an articulate, clever monologue, during which all the character's thoughts spill out. We are not <span style="font-style:italic;">shown</span> the inner struggle, we're <span style="font-style:italic;">told about it</span>. Good onstage; better still for that monologue audition. VERY hard to film.<br /><br />So, economy. The strong film scene is rich with moments yet uses words sparingly, giving the actors something to do. <br /><br />Speaking of which...<br /><br /><br />TENSION<br /><br />Actors who've studied with me have heard me use this term, as it's central to my work. I'm not talking about "tension" in the usual sense, that tight feeling in the air when you walk into a conflict in progress. Rather, I'm talking about the tension between what's INSIDE you and what you let OUT, to the world. It can spring from frustration, fear, desire; no matter.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />The greater the tension, the better you film. </span><br /><br />Period. <br /><br />Screaming at someone actually releases that tension. Obscenities release that tension. In fact, most of what you may have been taught in drama school releases that tension. Or, to borrow from Mr. Strasberg, all the yelling and swearing is merely a weak attempt to INDICATE a tension that does not, in fact, exist.<br /><br />Not that the tension must always remain contained-- in fact, release of The Tension can be a powerful moment. It's what drives every romantic comedy, after all: what's inside (God, I want to kiss you...) is submerged by what's outside (...but I can't!). If an actor feels this, it needn't be forced. I've got a camera; I'll come inside you and get it. And we'll accompany an actor on a long journey indeed if we sense tension, for we know we'll be rewarded at the end, when it breaks. The downside to this? If you have no inner tension, well, I'll film that too. <br /><br />An actor would do well to respect that it can be an act of faith for a writer to write this kind of tension into a scene-- for what if the actor misses it? But strong writers realize that there really is no other kind of dramatic scene to write.<br /><br />Why? Because it's how we live. Oh, and P.S.: it films like crazy.<br /><br />________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br />PART 2: FINALLY, THE SCENE <br /><br />from THE SWEET HEREAFTER, adapted by Atom Egoyan<br /><br />This is a perfect little jewel of a scene. <br /><br />THE SET-UP: for those who haven't seen it, The Sweet Hereafter starts with a devastating event: in a small town in Canada, on a sunny winter morning, a school bus skids on a patch of ice and careens into a frozen lake, killing almost all the kids on board-- and effectively killing all the town's children.<br /><br />The story traces the terrible aftershocks of this event, seen through the progress of a predatory lawyer, Mitchell Stephens (Ian Holm, brilliant as always), who comes to the town in an attempt to organize a class action lawsuit.<br /><br />THE SCENE: BILLY, widowed with two children, has been having an affair with RISA, married, who owns a roadside motel with her husband. Both of Billy's children (and Risa's son) were killed in the crash. (Worse, Billy was driving behind the bus that morning and saw it slide into the lake.) Prior to the crash, Billy and Risa had been arranging clandestine meetings in the motel; this is their first meeting after the crash. (FYI, "Nicole" is a teenager who'd been babysitting Billy's children; she was the only student to survive the crash. "Lydia" is Billy's deceased wife.) Here is the scene in its entirety:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">INT. MOTEL - NIGHT<br />Billy sits in his chair in room 11. He is alone, tapping on a pack of cigarettes.<br /><br />After a moment, the door opens. It is Risa. They stare at each other for a moment.<br /><br />RISA<br />I knew you'd be here.<br /><br />Risa sits on the bed. Pause.<br /><br />RISA<br />Are you going to the funeral?<br />Another pause.<br /><br />BILLY<br />I stopped by the station a while ago. I stared at the bus. <br />I could almost hear the kids inside. There was a lawyer<br />there. He told me he'd gotten you signed up. Is that true?<br /><br />RISA<br />Something made this happen, billy. Mr.<br />Stephens is going to find out what it was.<br /><br />BILLY<br />What are you talking about? It was an accident.<br /><br />RISA<br />Mr. Stephens says someone didn't put a right bolt in the bus--<br /><br />BILLY<br />--Risa, I service that bus. At the garage. <br />There's nothing wrong with it--<br /><br />RISA<br />--or that the guardrail wasn't strong enough.<br /><br />BILLY<br />You believe that?<br /><br />RISA<br />I have to.<br /><br />BILLY<br />Why?<br /><br />RISA<br />Because I have to.<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />BILLY<br />Well I don't.<br /><br />Billy gets up to leave.<br /><br />RISA<br />Is it true that you gave Nicole one of Lydia's dresses? <br />That she was wearing it when the bus crashed?<br /><br />BILLY<br />Yes.<br /><br />RISA<br />Why did you do that, Billy?<br /><br />BILLY<br />You think that caused the accident, Risa? <br />That it brought bad luck? Christ, it sounds to<br />me like you're looking for a witch doctor, not a lawyer. <br />Or maybe they're the same thing.<br /><br />Risa is overwhelmed. Billy opens the door. Turns back.<br /><br />BILLY<br />You know what I'm going to miss? More than making love? <br />It's the nights you couldn't get away from Wendell. <br />It's the nights I'd sit in that chair for an hour. <br />Smoking cigarettes and remembering my life before.<br /><br />Billy stares at Risa for a moment, then leaves. Risa collapses.<br /><br /></span><br />I saw this film over a decade ago; I've worked this scene dozens of times since. It still get hit in the chest every time I read it. <br /><br />So let's get to work. We first see Billy, thinking. Then:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">After a moment, the door opens. It is Risa. They stare at each other for a moment.<br /><br />RISA<br />I knew you'd be here.</span><br /><br />...and right there I love this scene. Why? Because, if you're Risa... "I knew you'd be here?" <br /><br />No you didn't <span style="font-style:italic;">no you didn't. Lie lie lie lie lie.</span> You HOPED he'd be there, sure-- but can you IMAGINE the long walk down to the last room on the end? How deep the gnawing fear that you'd open the door onto emptiness?<br /><br />(A DIGRESSION: no, this is not implicit in the script. This is a capital-C Choice. But filling in the blanks in the deepest way possible is what you DO, remember?) (Think I'm wrong? OK... so what do YOU do during those agonizing days after an audition when you're waiting for a call? Filling in the blanks is what you do, with some catastrophic, nightmare scenario of casting people stopping whatever they're doing to call one another to warn the whole town against YOU AND YOUR BAD ACTING.) (Ahem.)<br /><br />So you take a breath, open the door... and there he is. Billy. The clouds part, your stomach relaxes. Until...<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Risa sits on the bed. Pause.</span><br /><br />From BIlly, silence. No smile, no "hey, baby," no nothing. And the sky clouds right back over and you begin to collapse inside. And you say, what?<br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">RISA<br />Are you going to the funeral?</span><br /><br />OH how I love that awkward, space-filler question. THE WHOLE TOWN is going to the funeral, and you both know it. It's just something to say. And all you get is more silence (I adore silence in film), before finally:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">BILLY<br />I stopped by the station a while ago. I stared at<br />the bus. I could almost hear the kids inside. <br />There was a lawyer there. He told me he'd gotten<br />you signed up. Is that true?</span><br /><br />OK. So, Billy: your answer, the very first words you speak, <span style="font-style:italic;">aren't a response to Risa all.</span> Before you even open your mouth, this scene demands that you'd better have an answer to this question: why are you here? All your stillness, all your silence (Tension and Economy...), paying off, how? <br /><br />The answer is right there: Mitchell Stephens. You need to hear from Risa's mouth that she signed on with the guy. You didn't come here to get laid, you came here to see how she reacts when you tell her, how she looks when she admits it. Because you sure aren't gonna sign. (And here's the killer: Lydia wouldn't have, either. Oh how you must ache for her.) (Yes, that's another Choice.) And then comes this perfectly crafted exchange:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">RISA<br />Something made this happen, billy. Mr. Stephens is going to find out what it was.<br /><br />BILLY<br />What are you talking about? It was an accident.<br /><br />RISA<br />Mr. Stephens says someone didn't put a right bolt in the bus--<br /><br />BILLY<br />--Risa, I service that bus. At the garage. There's nothing wrong with it--<br /><br />RISA<br />--or that the guardrail wasn't strong enough.<br /><br />BILLY<br />You believe that?<br /><br />RISA<br />I have to.<br /><br />BILLY<br />Why?<br /><br />RISA<br />Because I have to.<br /><br /> BILLY<br />Well I don't.</span><br /><br />...and, really, that's it. All the whispered conversations, the secrecy, the WORK required to keep an affair secret, here in a small town... gone. Each now knows who other is, in a way they hadn't before. There's nothing more to say. And Billy got what he came for. (And if you're RISA, I just know you're not simply going to blurt out "I have to," as if it's a pretty way of saying "yes." Because you know it's a much more difficult, honest answer to give, and reveals so much about who you are.)<br /><br />Billy starts out. And we could easily cut the scene right there. Except....<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">RISA<br />Is it true that you gave Nicole one of Lydia's dresses? <br />That she was wearing it when the bus crashed?<br /><br />BILLY<br />Yes.<br /><br />RISA<br />Why did you do that, Billy?</span><br /><br />...and my heart breaks all over again. This exchange does not move the story forward, at all, EXCEPT as it deepens our understanding of who Risa is: we have been underestimating the depth of her grief. She simply does not have the capacity to absorb what's happened. And she knows it, and now Billy does, too. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Risa is overwhelmed. Billy opens the door. Turns back.<br /><br />BILLY<br />You know what I'm going to miss? More than making love? <br />It's the nights you couldn't get away from Wendell. <br />It's the nights I'd sit in that chair for an hour. <br />Smoking cigarettes and remembering my life before</span>.<br /><br />...and the scene elevates to another dimension entirely. Two reasons: <br /><br />First, take a look at the line again-- try to notice where, exactly, Billy dumps Rita. See it?<br /><br />Of course not - because by the time he speaks <span style="font-style:italic;">he's already ended the relationship</span>. He dumps Rita in the silence. It's a subtle point, yes, but the difference between good writing and great is so often subtle. There is no "so this is it, Rita," or "it's over," any any of those other parting shots that so many writers write but no one ever really says. Rather, Billy STARTS with "you know what I'm going to miss?"-- and by doing so we understand that this is already in the past for him.<br /><br />Second, if you're Billy... <span style="font-style:italic;">you don't have to say any of that. You could simply leave.</span> This is worse than a slap, this is more humiliating than a spit in the face. Sure, you're leaving-- but before you do, you want to make sure this woman understands that the best thing about sleeping with her.... was not sleeping with her? <br /><br />You tell her because you want it to hurt. You tell her because, after all, it's a small town. You'll see each other. And you don't ever want to talk about this again and Risa needs to know something raw: in your heart, she is not Lydia. She never was, she never will be.<br /><br /><br />Whenever I work this scene I am reminded of dunking a basketball. <br /><br />Really, nothing could be simpler: here's the ball. There's the hoop. Put it in.<br /><br />Yet that simplest of acts is beyond most of our capabilities. We can coach and train and coach and train... but we will never dunk a basketball. (That's OK, by the way. We have other gifts.) As any shy guy who's had to ask a woman out (ahem) will tell you: simple does not mean easy.<br /><br />And so it is with this scene. Really, it's not complicated.<br /><br />If you're Risa: Billy is the love of your life. You dream every day of building a life with this man. In this scene, he leaves you-- but before he does, he cuts your heart out. And, to make it worse (and to put it bluntly), he blows you off for a dead chick. (Good luck with that.)<br /><br />If you're Billy: Lydia was the love of your life. In this scene, you come to hate yourself for every day you spent with Risa. You come to hate your weakness, your loneliness, and in the end you feel an unimaginable ache for your deceased wife. She would never, ever have signed on with any lawyer. And she's dead. (Good luck with that.)<br /><br />All in two and a half pages. All this risk, all this revelation, all this devastation, without either character flying off into a rage or launching into some musing about--<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">...how it got like this... do you remember<br /> that first time, Billy? Do you? That magical<br /> night, by the lake? I've been thinking so<br />much about that and, you know, I was actually<br />worried, terrified, really, that something like<br />this might come out of that mouth of yours--</span><br /><br />--stop. Stop stop stop. This is the movies, and we don't need that. You're an actor; you'll show us. And we'll film it.<br /><br />And that's what makes a Strong Film Scene. <br /><br /><br /><br />P.S.: I hate to admit this but it's so instructive I have to come clean: when you write, it's always wise to run what you've written through a "word count" program to get a feel for length.<br /><br />This piece (which includes the scene) is about 3,000 words.<br />The scene itself, in its entirety: 300 words.<br /> <br />If you make your living acting in front of the camera you'd do well to think about that.<br /><br />Los Angeles, CA<br />Oct, 2010Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-26705765728089667402010-07-30T18:42:00.001-07:002010-08-02T14:04:37.645-07:00Life in Flight<div class="UIComposer_InputArea_Base UIComposer_InputArea"><div class="UIComposer_InputShadow "><div style="width: 511px;" class="Mentions_Input" id="c4c537d7a1d6105d568fb1_input" contenteditable="true">It takes about an hour to relax.<br /><br />After all these years, all these hundreds of flights... I am still always, always last-minute getting to the airport. And since I really fly out of only two airports (JFK and LAX), I'm a Jedi at getting to each. And even though I fly solo these days, I have to think that my timing would be exasperating (to say the least) for anyone who accompanying me who is less last-minute than I.<br /><br />Today, it's LAX. Where my flight is at 3PM. Lemme lay it out for you:<br /><br />1:12:walk off the lot (Paramount, Van Ness @ Melrose).<br /><br />1:16: realize that I have left my car keys somewhere on the lot. (Production Office? Set? trailer?) My 1:15 exit was tightly timed as it was, so this has the potential to Majorly Suck. Because the lot is BIG.<br /><br />1:23: walk off the lot, take 2. (keys were on set-- in the shot! Well played, PK!)<br /><br />1:28: pull out of the parking structure and onto Melrose... to McCadden... to 6th... to La Brea... to the 10... to La Cienega.. to La Tijera... to Airport... to the hated Lot C.<br /><br />2:04: Score a prime parking space! Just make the shuttle bus! I RULE!!<br /><br />2:14: at AA Terminal 4.<br /><br />2:29: at the gate-- and I get the Upgrade <span style="font-style:italic;">(sa-weet!)</span>....<br /><br />3:21: plane leaves the ground. (Frequent Flier Note: when the captain comes on and announces the "estimated flight time" it's usually accurate TO THE MINUTE. It's spooky.<br /><br />So between the lot and takeoff, it's a tense two hours. Naturally, it takes about an hour to let all that recede.<br /><br />And after all the drama, here's the thing: I find myself in one of these seats roughly every two weeks. I love it. I love the white noise of the engines and the fans. I love the fast-forward sunsets (I ALWAYS get a window) and the way the sky fades from blue to orange to black. I love the disconnect from worldly things. Truth? I'd do this every day, if I could. The food in Business is good, the wine's great, the service is phenomenal (why can't I have a Waiter Call Button at a bar?)-- and don't get me started about that view.<br /><br />And, about an hour in... something unwinds. And for this moment, I am nowhere. I'm not here, I'm not there. Nobody's yammering on a phone. There is no text to reply to. I am a happy captive, here in 7A, and I can, finally, think. And breathe. <br /><br />And see, finally, that those postage-stamp towns are like life, in a way: the events that seem so important up close are impossible to even distinguish from here. But the feelings, the love... funny, how distance and time have no effect on that. <br /><br />I both love and hate my life for being forever mysterious to me. How is that possible? But I suppose that's why we make movies. They're a clumsy, beautiful attempt to explain it.<br /></div></div></div>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-74247022466558061072010-05-19T13:05:00.000-07:002010-05-19T13:08:55.530-07:00A little big event this morningSo I was forwarded two things this morning: an actor-written screenplay...<br />and a link to the following Bukowski poem.<br /><br />And this is why I believe in God.<br /><br /><br />so you want to be a writer<br />by Charles Bukowski<br /><pre>if it doesn't come bursting out of you<br />in spite of everything,<br />don't do it.<br />unless it comes unasked out of your<br />heart and your mind and your mouth<br />and your gut,<br />don't do it.<br />if you have to sit for hours<br />staring at your computer screen<br />or hunched over your<br />typewriter<br />searching for words,<br />don't do it.<br />if you're doing it for money or<br />fame,<br />don't do it.<br />if you're doing it because you want<br />women in your bed,<br />don't do it.<br />if you have to sit there and<br />rewrite it again and again,<br />don't do it.<br />if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,<br />don't do it.<br />if you're trying to write like somebody<br />else,<br />forget about it.<br /><br /><br />if you have to wait for it to roar out of<br />you,<br />then wait patiently.<br />if it never does roar out of you,<br />do something else.<br /><br />if you first have to read it to your wife<br />or your girlfriend or your boyfriend<br />or your parents or to anybody at all,<br />you're not ready.<br /><br />don't be like so many writers,<br />don't be like so many thousands of<br />people who call themselves writers,<br />don't be dull and boring and<br />pretentious, don't be consumed with self-<br />love.<br />the libraries of the world have<br />yawned themselves to<br />sleep<br />over your kind.<br />don't add to that.<br />don't do it.<br />unless it comes out of<br />your soul like a rocket,<br />unless being still would<br />drive you to madness or<br />suicide or murder,<br />don't do it.<br />unless the sun inside you is<br />burning your gut,<br />don't do it.<br /><br />when it is truly time,<br />and if you have been chosen,<br />it will do it by<br />itself and it will keep on doing it<br />until you die or it dies in you.<br /><br />there is no other way.<br /><br />and there never was.</pre>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-2410616418691800922010-04-06T19:46:00.000-07:002010-04-06T19:48:08.759-07:00NCIS - LA: finally, a working stiff<span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:78%;" ><br />I got paid for last Friday.<br /><br />Yeah, OK, so what... except: Friday was a holiday, and we didn't shoot.<br /><br />Again, I know: so what?<br /><br />Here's so what-- for me (and perhaps you), it's been "eat what I kill" my entire adult life. Prior to now, I've never, ever been paid for not working. Not on New Years, not the Fourth of July, not on Christmas. I get sick? Bummer for me. Vacation? Factor in the loss of income and decide if it's worth it. Where's the rent coming from next month? Wait for the phone to ring, and see. Which wears a body down, after a while.<br /><br />Many of you know what this feels like. Others have lived it for a time, and said "not for me, thanks." Still others read this and think (perhaps rightly): that is simply no way for an adult to live.<br /><br />I hear ya. But until recently it's been the only life I ever knew.<br /><br />Besides, there's an honesty, a kind of dignity in it: you HAVE to bring your A-game, every day-- because, as is often said, Results Don't Lie. The phone rings? You're doing something right. It doesn't? Get up a little earlier, work a little harder. And if that doesn't work... take a long, hard look in the mirror. (But if it comes to that, please, please: respect yourself. Most people will never have to take that look in the mirror.)<br /><br />For me, working in theatre or film has always been a calling, a privilege even to be asked-- but until now, it's never been a job. So this latest development has been something of a surprise. And after decades of being "that guy" on sets ("who's That Guy?" "I dunno-- I think he knows the star, or something...")-- it is a revelation to realize that I have become part of the rag-tag community on the lot.<br /><br />And I gotta say, it's nice. The day after St. Patrick's Day, Ron, the Guard, who greets me with a smile every day, asked if I was hungover from The Big Night. I told him that we New England Irish Catholics think of St. Paddy's as Amateur Night-- and when I left for the day he said he'd been telling everyone that, all day long. He loved it! That doesn't sound like much, I know-- but if you've never had it, it's a big deal, indeed.<br /><br />So, yes. It's nice to wait my turn at the gate to swipe my ID. It's nice to flirt with the payroll ladies. It's nice to have the wardrobe guy say to me, excitedly: "they got Chinese chicken salad at crafty! Better get over there!"<br /><br />Wanna know a secret? It reminds me of theatre, this misfit-toy feeling on the lot. We're just a bunch of oddballs trying to do our best to make a thing good. And tomorrow we'll do it again. And again, the day after that. Except for two weeks at Christmas, I've been working this job every weekday since last July.<br /><br />Which is fine by me.<br /><br />pk</span>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-27835883544721971422010-04-03T19:16:00.000-07:002010-04-03T19:17:09.214-07:00This has nothing to do with acting......but a lot to do with Easter. It's a few years old, but still. Hope you like it.<br /><br /><br />I saw Jesus walking down East Fourth Street today. <br /><br />He was dressed entirely, and simply, in white, and carried over his shoulder an improbably large crucifix, which made a hollow scraping sound as it trailed along the pavement behind him. He looked, from the the high angle of the front window of my sixth-floor apartment, an awful lot like one of the neighborhood kids, mainly due to A) his street-fashionable buzz cut, and B) his gleaming white Pumas, just visible underneath his robes.<br /><br />In truth, I heard Jesus' coming before I saw him, for his arrival was heralded by a repeating hymn that grew louder as he approached. I cannot state with certainty that what I was hearing was in fact a hymn, being that it was in Spanish; also, since the single hymnal voice was issuing loudly from a pair of PA speakers strapped onto the top of a Toyota (the roof was which was protected from harm by a NY Mets towel), little beyond the melody line could be discerned. The effect from my living room was that of an ecclesiastical ice-cream truck, luring customers with the promise of salvation rather than a cold Mister Softee. <br /><br />And it seemed to be effective, for behind the boy Jesus (and a gang of somber apostles, all similarly white-robed) there trailed a crowd of a few hundred varied souls. Mothers in clumps, quietly pushing strollers, the elderly, and even teenaged Puerto Rican couples, side-by-side, hands squeezed into one another's back pockets. That particular sight gave me pause to consider for a moment the eternal question of What Would Jesus Do, especially as regards Public Displays of Affection. I concluded he would not mind, even if (as was currently the case) he was limping along with his burden just a few yards ahead. <br /><br />This procession was capped at either end by an NYPD cruiser, each gliding silently at a respectful distance. They made their presence known mainly by their strobing red lights, which added an odd sense of holiday festivity to the procession.<br /><br />But Jesus. He'd been taking his burden seriously, shifting his slow course left and right to avoid manhole covers and other minor street obstacles that might jar his load.... but as I looked down at him now, he seemed to be veering purposefully to the right, limping even slower toward the line of parked cars along the curb...<br /><br />...and then I saw it too. Money. <br /><br />A couple of bills, just pinched under a tire and fluttering almost free. I was too far away to see their denomination, but I could make out the coloring identifying them as among the newer bills. It had to be at least a ten-spot, maybe more. They had blown there, clearly, and would not remain there long. What Would Jesus Do, indeed? <br /><br />I believe there is a biblical passage that observes that in moments of decision we are all alone. Or perhaps that was George Bernard Shaw. Or Mark Twain. Whatever the source, I have always felt it to be the case, and so I was sympathetic to the forces I imagined were tugging at the young Jesus as I watched unobserved. What moral calculus, I wondered, was being done so quickly in his head?<br /><br />He passed the bills by. It was hard to tell from where I was, but I think he may have sped up a bit, pressing forward with just a little more sense of urgency as he continued on his journey. <br /><br />By the time his followers had passed and the warbling hymn-song had grown distant, the money was gone. <br /><br />And I felt at that moment overwhelmed, in that way that comes upon one (or at least me, sometimes) without warning. The young Jesus had been given a gift-- a story that would, over his life, be worth far more than the value of the bills he'd left behind. And I'd been given a gift, too; I knew it. I just wasn't sure what it was. <br /><br />Maybe a reminder of the value of having something, anything, to believe in.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-11157658062893796682009-12-13T15:16:00.001-08:002009-12-13T15:19:57.392-08:00Life on the Lot, part 1<span style="font-style: italic;">"Waitwaitwait.... </span>are we <span style="font-style: italic;">pink</span> or<span style="font-style: italic;"> buff?</span>"<br /><br />No. I am not in West Hollywood on Saturday night.<br /><br />I'm in my home in Laurel Canyon; Chris O'Donnell, my friend, client, and the star of NCIS Los Angeles, is (presumably) in his trailer somewhere near Venice beach. It's 8 AM, and we're running a scene for the current episode over the phone, and what he's saying and what I'm reading do not match up; we have this confusion --which is not one of tanning-booth settings or skin tone but about the "color" of the most current draft of the script-- from time to time.<br /><br />(FOR THE UNINITIATED, A NOTE ON SCRIPT COLOR: It's something of a genius system, really: once a color progression is agreed upon --not unlike the Bronze-Silver-Gold progression of Olympic medals-- there's no more confusion about which script is current. If Green comes after Blue, and you got blue pages and see anyone walkin' around with green... you missed the memo, sport. You're out of date.)<br /><br />Anyway. On a show like NCIS, there can be more than one script revision A DAY. Granted, those changes may be as little as a few lines, but still. Given that we have eight days to shoot those 60 pages (give or take), that's a lot, and they pile up.<br /><br />P.S.: For those keeping track at home... it's Buff. We get back to work.<br /><br />_________________________________________________________________<br /><br />I think I need to answer a few questions first.<br /><br />- No, I'm not dead. I'm in LA. Feel free to insert a joke, if you want.<br /><br />- Yes, I have a place to live here. So... since August, give or take, Laurel Canyon (technically the Hollywood Hills, north of Sunset Blvd) has been my home. For what it's worth, it's an awesome place (view, fireplace, the whole deal). True story: while I was first walking through the house, I called the owner (now my landlord), Leslie. She's in Jersey and was initially a little confused by my 917 area code-- but 15 minutes later, in the midst of talk of commute times from Weehawken to Sony Music, she said "...you know what? You want it, the place is yours. Just send me a check."<br /><br />No app, no lease, nothing. I would not know Leslie if she walked in the room.<br /><br />- I am here because primarily because my two most long-term actor clients, Eliza Dushku and Chris O'Donnell, both are leads in network series-- Eliza is the lead in Dollhouse, Joss Whedon's show on Fox; Chris is, as mentioned, the lead in NCIS. I am also here because, through a series of details too convoluted to go into here, when these shows were announced last spring I had no place to live in Manhattan. My friends claimed that this was the universe's way of saying, in essence: you've been talking about LA for years-- it's Now or Never, Pal.<br /><br />I chose "Now." And here I am.<br /><br />______________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br />There is a funny thing about moving without thinking it through: one has no idea of what one's life is going to be-- and one (OK, me) soon realizes how completely one (OK, me) has underestimated how much of a life one leaves behind. It's hard, this; the new life, all that.<br /><br />Fortunately, as some of you know, once in LA I had to hit the ground running-- for in addition to Chris and Eliza, my friend Rick Fox needs "refocusing." I have never, ever met anyone in Hollywood who receives more varied, over-the-transom offers than Rick. And me? Scattered, running-in-ten-directions me-- compared to Rick? I'm friggin' <span style="font-style: italic;">Ghandi</span>, I'm so calm and focused.<br /><br />So I settle into this new, strange life, a life dictated by call sheets. They come in nightly, and it's always surprising to me how the next day's call sheets for two entirely different shows, halfway across town, arrive in my inbox in within ten minutes of each other. (Honestly, how is that possible?) As one might expect, the Universe seems to conspire to make Big Days (or even Big Scenes) occur at the same time for all my clients. So I toggle back and forth between the two-- who's shooting what, and when-- and where? It's kinda stressful, to tell you the truth. But one does what one can.<br /><br />______________________________________________________________<br /><br />Much more to say, but it's late. I'll tell ya more from the plane tomorrow.<br /><br />PeterPeter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-37208011948591576392009-12-09T19:10:00.000-08:002009-12-13T15:16:02.919-08:00Boston, part two<span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /> ... yah yah yah I know: it's been more than 24 hours (as promised) since I last wrote. But I've got a good excuse, for my ensuing 24 hours do not start well.<br /><br /> At all. I'll pick up where I left off:<br /><br /> So I'm in bed. I've sent my emails, I've shut off my laptop; as I roll over, I marvel at the fact that I'm so tired as to actually be nauseous. It's my life, I think, finally catching up to me.<br /><br /> Fifteen minutes later I change my mind, for the nausea has overtaken the fatigue. This isn't good.<br /><br /> A few minutes later the nausea has intensified, and now something more: dread. A dread that soon turns into an awful certainty I haven't felt in years: <i>in a few minutes,</i> <i>I'm gonna puke. And puke hard</i>.<br /><br /> Nothing changes about this ritual, or the steps that lead relentlessly to it: the sweating, the shallow breathing, the clenched fists... the desperate bargaining with one's own stomach: <i>please, please, not now...</i> the eternal bucket/toilet debate (and where IS the ice bucket, anyway?)... the mental plotting of the bathroom dash, followed the realization that the mere act of standing will seal the deal and the dread that one has waited too long to sprint.<br /><br /> One forgets how painful it is.<br /><br /> ...the first time. After an hour or so of this, as my fingernails dig into the toilet seat and my even my legs, fully extended and tensed, are in on the job, I come to hate my body. I hate the level of pain it can endure. I hate its stubborn insistence that the best thing to do now is, ya know... <i>puke more</i>. I hate the fact that every muscle in my body is tense in an effort to squeeze another drop of God-knows-what from my body--and if I could breathe, I'd scream to my body (really, I would): THERE'S SIMPLY. NOTHING. LEFT. Anywhere. Trust me. I know this.<br /><br /> Finally, it recedes. as I collapse onto the tile floor, drenched in a sweat that trickles even into my ears, I am reminded of a fundamental truth of life: few things feel better than the end of pain.<br /><br /> My last thought before passing out is a prayer that this is food poisoning, for there's a stomach flu going around LA that's got a nasty reputation and I simply can't afford a week of this. Time will tell.<br /><br /> 6AM: I open my eyes. The sliver-window in the bathroom has turned from black to a dull, slate gray. Dawn. Crawl back to bed.<br /><br /> A lifetime later (but it's only 9:40!) and my body has decided that one final, just-in-case round is in order-- and as I assume the position, this I know: ain't no way I'm teachin a class today. But by noon, the pain-tide has turned a little, and I decide: Peter Kelley is no quitter. I'm in Boston, Dammit, and I've got work to do. Come hell or high water, I'll rally.<br /><br />2PM: I call my good friend Steve Stapinski, who's registered in the class, and he agrees to stop by with replenishing fluids on his way in to rehearse. A few minutes later, a knock at my door: a bellman, with a bag containing TWO ONE-GALLON JUGS of Gatorade. (Thanks, Steve.) A little after three, and I'm at the BCA. I make it through class, actually rally a little, and when we exit the BCA...<br /><br /> Now THIS is more like it. THIS is the Boston I remember.<br /><br /> I am suddenly walking fast and my head is down and my hands are dug into my pockets and I am squinting in a futile effort to shield my eyes against the wind-driven sleet that sandblasts directly into my face. As we approach steve's car, Steve-- who can never, ever resist talking to a young woman-- asks the valet whether we are in fact dealing with snow or rain.<br /><br /> "Neither," she says... "it's 'snain'. Snain's the worst."<br /><br /> "Snain." That's a good one. Fifteen years in Boston and I never heard that. I am shivering by the time I climb into Steve's car and I am reminded to never, ever take small miracles like heated seats for granted. Five minutes later I am back in my bed. Two minutes after that, I'm asleep.<br /><br /> It is not, as it feels, ten hours later when I wake up. In fact, it's barely nine PM. But I am on the mend, and I'd earlier heard a rumor that I now must confirm, so I get dressed and manage to head outside.<br /><br /> The rumor is true. The "snain" has turned to snow. Real snow, White Christmas snow. Suddenly, I don't even mind the cold. Suddenly, I know there's only one thing to do. I drop my head, squint... and return to the the Oak Room. I order a ginger ale (but <i>for the love of Christ stay away from those Wasabe peas!</i>), and listen.<br /><br /> One thing about Christmas carols: all the good ones succeed on the level of melody, so they don't need to be sung to be enjoyed. But now, in a bold shift... this new tune is not a Christmas carol, and it takes me a second to place it. It's The Beatles: "Here,There, and Everywhere."<br /><br /> Here's the thing about a Beatles song: every element is by now so iconic --the arrangement, the production, those vocals-- that it's sometimes necessary to hear one out of context to realize how beautiful it is. It's a brilliant choice, this, for it's so simple and haunting and sweet that, in another musical life, it could actually be a Christmas carol. And I get the sense I'm not alone in this thought: for the duration of the song, the whole place grows a little quieter.<br /><br /> It ends, and I decide not to press my luck with another Ginger Ale. One more chin-down walk though a Boston night, and in ten minutes I'm back in bed and once again quickly dropping into sleep, and as I do so I think about my day. Despite its horrible start, I taught a class. I heard Christmas carols. I saw snow. And now I'm in a warm bed.<br /><br /> All of our lives go through times of ache. But even then - or especially then - above all things, Gratitude. Which is the point, I think, of the season.<br /><br /><br /> PK</span>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-1422058694554283462009-12-04T23:25:00.000-08:002009-12-04T23:26:31.172-08:00a short note...I have to remind myself that for Boston, this is warm. <br /><br />It's ten PM, or thereabouts. I'm heading over to the Oak Bar at the Copley Plaza for a quiet(ish) glass of wine before bed, and as I scurry across Dartmouth street I remember the essential fact of how windy this place is, so I'm thankful for the relative warmth. I'm remembering from my days in Boston a series of post-Thanksgiving cold spells-- snow turning to ice in early December (I swear!), and days on end of bitter, bone-snapping cold. Not tonight, though, and I bless my good fortune as I slip into the bar.<br /><br />Which is packed. A confession: there's a kind of sadness to coming alone to a place like this, in Boston, on a Friday night in the Holiday season -- as far as I can tell, it's not only Family Night but Date Night here at the Oak Room, and while I enjoy the dull din of conversation and the piano player's medley of Holiday Favorites (I am, after all, The Christmas Whore...), I'm also aware of my presence as the "party of one" guy who's workin' on his laptop on a Friday night (it's true - since I'm teaching a class tomorrow, this does qualify as a business trip for PK). (It also reminds me of a script idea about a man who goes through life positioning himself next to happiness, based on his hope that happiness is contagious and can, like a winter cold, be "caught" if one is around it often enough). Anyway. I'll probably overpay for the wine, but I don't care-- I've reached a point where I'll gladly pay a premium for a warm spot with comfortable seats. <br /><br />So what am I doing here? Well, I made a promise to myself on the flight out (where I got the upgrade, again! I'm on a roll, baby! But no wi-fi on Boston flights...): I'm going to try to send "a musing a day" for the next few days, to get back into the swing of chronicling my increasingly scattered, hard-to-describe life. As a few of you have pointed out, it's been a long time since you've received a "PK rambling." I know. Rest assured I've got a backlog of observations about the culture of celebrity, working in network television, "life on the lot", life in Laurel Canyon, all of it. Things are slowing down, so hopefully that will allow me to catch up.<br /><br />Stay tuned.<br /><br />Especially since I now see that it's gonna snow tomorrow.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-77795763965119543162009-07-17T16:44:00.000-07:002009-07-17T16:46:51.335-07:00A sobering thought from another Peter...<p><br />This is from Peter Bart's recent column in Variety. It's true, and a little scary:</p><p><br /></p><p style="font-style: italic;">...Hollywood, too, is having growing pains. Indeed, the kids who fight and fret and fuck their way through "Entourage" may, in their own small way, serve as a metaphor for the agonies of the community at large.</p><p style="font-style: italic;">The economic crunch has had a delayed impact on Hollywood, but its impact has now become devastatingly clear. Jobs have become scarce and pay sharply shaved. Insiders believe the number of film releases will drop sharply from more than 600 last year to as few as 350 in 2010.</p><p style="font-style: italic;">"The film business is like a snake digesting a large meal," the Economist pointed out last week. "The production bulge caused by the deluge of money in 2006 and 2007 will take a year or so to work its way through the system.</p><p style="font-style: italic;">The entertainment business poses many contradictions to analysts. Box office is up as much as 12% this year, but the studios are getting squeezed by their once-flush parents. Corporate hatchet men at behemoths like Sony or Viacom have thus sent forth their austere mandates: Cut costs and scale back risks. That message is not exactly great news to a business whose entire history rests on expensive risk-taking.</p><p style="font-style: italic;">The upshot: Just as Vince and 'E' and their confreres may now have to come of age, so do the many actors, writers and other members of Hollywood's creative community who face a tough period of corporate consolidation and cost-cutting. The balance of power between the talent and the corporate suits has shifted to the corporations. That translates into the many ugly realities no one likes to think about -- foreclosures, kids being pulled out of private schools, courts jammed with claims for reduced alimony, restaurants shuttering.</p><span style="font-style: italic;">It's getting ugly out there. I'm glad we have "Entourage" to give us a few laughs. </span>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-91916619262890363682009-06-27T22:04:00.001-07:002009-06-29T08:58:52.054-07:00A Boston day-Night DoubleheaderFunny, this business. If you hang around long enough, things have a way of circling back.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MARCH</span><br />I'm sent a copy of "THE TOWN," Ben Affleck's follow-up to Gone Baby Gone (and a Hot Script in LA, at the time), to read for my client Eliza.<br /><br />"Oh, for CHRISSAKES," I think as I start reading, "another Boston Guys Doin' Crime script-- will these things <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> stop coming?"<br /><br />I'm serious. Is there something in the water up there? Some friggin' <span style="font-style: italic;">Artesian well</span> in Dorcherster or Saugus or someplace that produces, in anyone who drinks from it, an insatiable desire to write about 'these guys from the neighborhood who plan to steal some (drugs guns money)'? I can tell you without exaggeration that in the 20 years I've been doing this I am sent about one of these scripts a month, and most of them are God-awful.<br /><br />But not The Town. The Town is wonderful.<br /><br />Crime thrillers have a self-imposed challenge: they must quickly succeed on both plot and character levels, and the Town does so on both counts, beautifully. I opened the file sitting in bed at the Mondrian hotel, on that first, jet-lagged night in LA, but kept clicking through the pages until after two AM (actually five AM, since I'm on east coast time). Let's see what we can do with this one, I tell Eliza, and go to bed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">APRIL</span><br />I'm sent another script: VALEDICTION, a small, finely observed family drama with a supernatural layer that gives it a nice, twisty feel. Better, this is an offer for Eliza, not an audition.<br />Better still, I very much like the script.<br />So even though the role is not large --and it's the "home-wrecker" role in the script-- I urge Eliza to take it. I always urge clients to pick the project, not the role-- and Oh how some agents hate this. In limited cases I see their point-- Leading Men are Leading Men, for example, and should only consider leading roles. But still-- were there any insignificant roles in <span style="font-style: italic;">No Country for Old Men</span>? Would any actor's career have been hurt appearing anywhere in that film? In the case of Valediction, I'm 'validated' (get it?) when I hear of the wonderful Brits that are in the cast-- ends up that Eliza is one of the only Americans in the film.<br />Ends up, also, that it films in Boston. July, they say, so that's that. It's on.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MAY</span><br />Out of the blue, I get an email from an old acquaintance: Frank Corache, a fine director best known for helming some of Adam Sandler's best films. Ends up Frank's directing ZOOKEEPER, a Kevin James film shooting in Boston, and do I still do any casting up there? I tell him that I do, in tandem with my good friend and casting director Carolyn Pickman. So, another script. I read it, offer some thoughts, and Frank tells me we'll be in touch.<br /><br />So now it's <span style="font-weight: bold;">JUNE</span>...<br />...we got the Zookeeper job, Carolyn's gearing up on The Town... and, at the eleventh hour, a call from Eliza:<br />"Pete, can you be in Boston THIS WEEK?"<br />Ends up VALEDICTION got pushed-- up, not back. That NEVER happens. Suddenly, a temporary relocation to Boston seems inevitable-- and since my personal life's been in something of a freefall, it sounds like a welcome diversion. The Universe Conspiring, all that.<br />Back to Boston I go.<br /><br />Ends up Eliza's days are mostly nights, so I manage to manage my time pretty well. But on Tuesday, I finally end up with a double header: Casting Zookeeper from 10 to 3, then moving onto the Valediction set from 4 to... well, late. As you might imagine, I have a couple of thoughts from that looong day.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE DAY: CASTING</span><br /><br />...which, it ends up, hasn't changed all that much. I'd forgotten how challenging these day-player days can be: it's a numbers game, and the session can feel as much like a commercial job as a feature job. But before I go any further,<br /><br />LET ME EXPLAIN SOMETHING ABOUT CASTING. By observing something about falling in love.<br /><br />In acting class, I sometimes ask: <span style="font-style: italic;">who here's single</span>? This being an acting class (and New York City, after all), it's not surprising that most hands go up. (on a side note, it's always surprising who's single, and who isn't, but that's a subject for another time.)<br /><br />So then I ask the single folk: "let's say you go to a party, or a bar-- <span style="font-style: italic;">how long does it take for you to know whether there's anyone there you're remotely interested in</span>?"<br /><br />The consensus: about five seconds.<br /><br />And as for "The Click", that magical connection you feel with someone who might be The One? Well, that takes almost no time at all.<br /><br />Which is precisely what casting for a film is like. For even the smallest of roles, there's this undefined ideal that just sort of walks in the room (for the record, "we'll know it when we see it" is true, and not at all a blow-off excuse). An actor who's not right for a role can give a lovely audition, but if there was no initial 'click' when they walked in the door, it matters not.<br />(But PLEASE don't despair, actors, and don't let off the gas, because "Terrific actor, wrong for this" is one of the best notes we can make about you-- and, honestly, sometimes better then getting called back. There are other projects. What's important is that we remember you as good.)<br /><br />And here's what feels counter-intuitive for many actors: this holds even more true for smaller roles. Zookeeper is a Disney comedy, so if we see you onscreen for FOUR LINES we kinda need to know who you are the minute you appear in the story . Which is why it breaks our heart when actors who've been called in for the one-line Security Guard role walk in, eyes filled with hope... because they're also clutching the sides for the larger, three-scene, 'Best Friend ' role in their hands.<br /><br />"Can I also read for...?" Sorry, but no. No Click. It's as simple as that.<br /><br />But what of the actors for whom we feel the click?<br /><br />It's equally heartbreaking when they haven't done the work to follow through on that initial promise. (I tell women it's like finally talking to the hot guy and finding out that he's dumb as a post. Oh, how you want him to be smarter, more sensitive, more insightful-- and, sure, you can choose to delude yourself that he is, for a while. Six weeks, tops. But he ain't, and you know it. But I digress.)<br /><br />I can tell you now that at least this one thing about casting hasn't changed: in film and TV, you gotta bring the performance in the audition. And to do that, you must create an entire world. I like to tell actors it's a matter of going temporarily insane: for a minute or two, you actually see, quite clearly, people and things that just happen not to be there. And if you believe in this fantasy world, if you commit to it fully, then we'll see it too, in you and through you. <br /><br />And Zookeeper? I'm guessing that everyone who Clicked --and who Did The Work-- will get called back (if there are callbacks)(ahem). We'll see.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE NIGHT: ON THE SET</span><br /><br />Which is <span style="font-style: italic;">Whiskey</span> friggin' <span style="font-style: italic;">Park</span>, of all places, and I'm late-- but not nearly as late as the production.<br /><br />I have no way of knowing, when I arrive at five, that the first shot will not go off til after eight PM, a full five hours after crew call. Mostly this has to do with the complex setup of the first shot-- which is a gutsy thing for a director to do.<br /><br />Orson Wells was known for doing it, as was Coppola: composing a long, challenging opening shot that takes a while to set up but will, once in the can, cover a page or more. You're five hours late-- then suddenly, a half hour later, you're back on track. Suri, the director (a Brit whom I get to know rather well, and who becomes a friend partially becuase I may be one of the only Americans who saw his film "A Man of No Importance" several years back), is setting up a travelling master, a stedicam shot that will follow Ben Barnes, the lead, down a flight of stairs, where he'll discover Eliza; we'll roll that two-shot all the way though the scene, right up until Ben's character is hauled back up the stars by Security Guards.<br /><br />Since this is only the second day of shooting, though, the crew hasn't yet coalesced as a team. This shot shouldn't be this hard to set up, and Suri's professional, but a little tense-- and when the director's tense, everyone's tense. And as the minutes slip away one hears (with increasing frequency) from the AD: "People, we need QUIET!"<br />(Side note: at this moment the director in me instinctively looks up at the ceiling-- polished metal-- then down: concrete floors. Cool-looking, but an accoustical nightmare.)<br /><br />And the quiet is needed, for the most part, from the extras. So, those who do extra work, take a breath. I'm gonna beat you up a little.<br /><br />To some of you, being an extra feels like being invited to a cool party: I'm in wardrobe! I'm right next to the stars! Plus, for most of the day, you're not really a necessary part of things. Add to the fact that you folks are not, by and large, a quiet lot... and what you have is a perfect storm of chatter.<br /><br />I speak for directors everywhere when I beg of you: <span style="font-style: italic;">Please Don't. </span><br /><br />Even under the best of circumstances, production is tense, and often a grind (personally, I don't have a problem with that, as it reminds us of how challenging the making of good movies really is). Everyone on set is focused, and the "keys" walk around with that buzz-tired that most of us only remember from college finals.<br /><br />But not the extras.I should tell you this is why so many directors (myself included) prefer to have extras holding far away from the set: everyone else on the set, even that forlorn PA over at craft services, is working-- and, probably, feeling lucky to have the job and focused on not getting fired. They stay quiet when they're asked. But to some extras, I gotta ask: <span style="font-style: italic;">what are you thinking?? </span><br /><br />Many of you are cater-waiters as well, and I can offer you this comparison: the set is like one of those parties you cater-- except that you, the waiter, are the crew; those guests are the extras. And when you're dead tired and trying to get back with that tray full of empty shrimp plates before you get screamed at or your arm falls off... don't you want those loud guests, who are apparently oblivious to the job you have to do, to simply WORK WITH YOU AND GET OUT OF YOUR WAY!?<br /><br />Welcome to our world, people.<br /><br />Again, I know this sounds harsh. Apologies. And, of course, not all extras are like this-- that night, I caught site of an elderly gent, nattily attired in a Brooks Brothers blazer and crisp khakis (...in Whisky Park??), sitting quietly, chipping away at a book full of sudoku puzzles. Because he was far from the action, he had an entire comfy sofa to himself, and seemed perfectly content to while the evening away, out-puzzling the puzzles, waiting for a call to action which, if it never came, was fine with him.<br /><br />My kind of extra. (And don't worry about not being seen-- we know who you are. We'll find you.)<br /><br />As for me? I chat with my other new "BFF," Ben Barnes (the male lead) who's quite passionate about the craft (my experience? The good ones, especially the Brits, usually are). I watch a few takes... I offer a few notes to Eliza, and give a few observations to Suri. I think they help.<br /><br />And, at about eleven or so, after a few hours of watching the monitior.... I know my work here is done. I head out into a damp Boston night.<br /><br />I reach my rental car, parked on Boylston Street in a 'Meter Parking 'til 8PM' spot. I bought one of those hated "muni meter" slips that was good until 7:54--<br /><br />--and there, on my windshield, is an orange love letter from my old, old friends at the Boston Transportation Department. Meter Expired-- as of 7:55.<br /><br />Ahh, Boston. Love you too. You never change.Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-24449509675022329952009-06-27T18:40:00.000-07:002009-06-28T17:29:07.280-07:00There is NO WAY it has been a month......yet, amazingly, it has.<br /><br />So... another "Scene of the Month." As always, let me know your thoughts.<br /><br />PK<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz4YPFHqz49hHPjxq1l1HCpahJyJpuIWWUruwJIEWsh8ixxKlXilVg7NrQe1prL4xsXOTRdbjP7Q3AqsMR5TQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0' />Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-66831940770307806932009-06-09T08:59:00.000-07:002009-06-09T09:04:17.303-07:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=";font-family:Verdana;" >Ya know...<br /><br />...I've been told that I can, on those occasions when the stars align, string together a sentence or two of quality that, together, rise to a certain... place. (Clearly, that was not such a sentence.)<br /><br />But every now and again I read something like Garrison Keilor's latest piece in Salon and I am reminded of how words can soar; I'm reminded of how high I (or anyone who writes) must set their bar if they are to attempt excellence. Like some of my pieces, it's a simple story of a party he attended; nothing more than a page from his life, really. But oh, what a page:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.salon.com/opinion/keillor/2009/06/03/transformation/index.html" target="_blank">Garrison Keilor's article in Salon.com</a><br /><br />Cheesy Confession: I may --MAY, mind you-- have gotten a little choked up while reading it. Spare, eloquent, profoundly moving-- and, unlike PK, he requires only 750 words or so to get the job done. (...how does he do it? How?? I write <i>paragraphs</i> that are longer than that.) (On a routine basis, as some of you know...)<br /><br />Here's a sneak of one of my favorite passages in the piece-- his description of what good art can be:<br /><br />"...a lavish gift of the heart that shames pretense by its outrageous generosity."<br /><br />I am reminded of Oscar Wilde's assertion that anything truly worth reading is worth re-reading, so,<br /><i><br />a lavish gift of the heart that shames pretense by its outrageous generosity.</i><br /><br />If I ever happen to meet Mr Keilor I will thank him for that phrase alone. It made my day; it may in fact have made my month, but we'll see.<br /><br />Read it. I promise it'll be the best five minutes you spend today.<br /><br />PK<br /><br /><br />P.S.: for those interested --and speaking as we are of fine writing-- here's a piece by Boston alum Marj Galas, writing in <i>Variety 411</i> about (ahem) Yours Truly:<br /><a href="http://www.resource411.com/411Update/Issue/Articles/Story.cfm?StoryID=1021" target="_blank"><br />Every Great Actor Should Have a Great Acting Coach.</a><br /><br />I will say that that was the most accurately I have ever been quoted in print in my life. Thanks, Marj! (Full disclosure: Marj is on the "get PK to LA" Team, which may have held some editorial sway in the piece)</span></span>Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-26694338698590515252009-05-13T15:53:00.000-07:002009-05-17T20:06:20.138-07:00I've been tinkering with this for a while: my first video post.<br /><br />I'm realizing that some (many?) of you may never have seen what, exactly, I do in my work with actors, so here you go. Let me know what you think. Be gentle.<br /><br />First, here's the "tutorial:"<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxoUkBV95ueOSslxIdcXwEpuXeGj1Shgvf0xFhrZ3o9TJJtY-sU9EIElHmnLM5z2M7oouJgigBvRKQKmeaoYQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0' /><br /><br /><br />And below is the companion piece-- a bit of the final scene, cut together. Yes, it's a little rough, but given that it's a classroom (a conference room overlooking the Hudson, actually) and not a set, I'm pretty pleased with the work that's done.<br /><br />But before you watch it, a few words about the scene partner, Kyla Druckman:<br /><br />she's an NYU senior who, given that she's done more film than theatre, doesn't know how NOT to live in the moment. Watch her almost control the scene through silence-- and her strong, secret thoughts about Don. <br /><br />Lesson: on film, your ability to listen is, in my experience, more important than your ability to speak. Watch:<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzcue5U2IpNRw22k-79zL6_2a0JoG_4NY4IFp5nRSZ7qJ83GzG5CXyPwG7fC41AVUXJ_UP_n2SxKd9PfxDBrw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0' />Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-23326157690226327222009-02-05T14:30:00.000-08:002009-05-17T19:55:09.377-07:00The Park City Diaries: a Tale of Four Films (and one almost-film...)<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I should be doing more. </span><br /><br />This is what I'm thinking as I lounge in a club chair in my beloved Washington School Inn, just off Main Street in Park City. It's Friday, and I've already managed to take care of the majority of the meetings I'd scheduled while here.<br /><br />I'd almost not come this year. If one has (or is involved with) a film that's here, the decision to attend the festival is a no-brainer. For me, the fact that I'd booked my accommodations far in advance ended up being the deciding factor-- that, plus the fact that (again) my pal Eliza has a whirlwind weekend scheduled.<br /><br />But there's something else, too. I always end up seeing familiar faces while here; at the end of the day, there's a value in seeing which among your old acquaintances are still in the game (David Kleiler, from back in Boston, in line next to me for a film!)-- and, sometimes, to remind those same acquaintances that you're still in it, too.<br /><br />And this year a free bonus: it's amazingly warm. Even now, in January and at 7,000 feet, the temperature rises well into the 40's each day. Better, I will not see a cloud for the entire time I'm here (and it's true that sunshine is a little warmer at altitude). Best: New York is still in the grip of a brutal cold front, and daytime highs in Park City are higher than those in New York City for the duration of my trip. (Yes, I check. You would too.)<br /><br />Back in my chair, I come to a radical decision: this year, my priority at Sundance is going to be seeing films.<br /><br />I know: crazy, right? Still, I warm to the idea quickly: late mornings, relaxing strolls, a few parties, a lot of new films. That's it. I'll focus on the "festival" side of Sundance and ignore completely its "market" side.<br /><br />For the uninitiated, a lesson:<br /><br />FESTIVALS and MARKETS<br /><br />...they used to be different. Cannes began the fusion; Sundance completed it.<br /><br />The New York Film Festival (the original, at Lincoln Center) may be the last of the pure film festivals: a prestige collection of what could only be called "art" films from around the world, selected to be shown for an audience whose only interest, in theory, is cinema. Prizes are given, sure, and there is the occasional Hollywood premiere among the films chosen (Mystic River is a good recent example), but, really, it's a prestige event that's All About The Work.<br /><br />A film market, by contrast, is a Persian Rug Bazaar. The name of the game is rugs, and everyone there is either buying (HBO, Lion's gate, etc) or selling (EVERY filmmaker on the mountain). A rug bazaar is not a place for the uninitiated, or the slow-- but the cagey, the quick, can do well there indeed.<br /><br />How? Simple. Wanna be a "player" at Cannes? Yes, you! A week in the south of France in May! All it takes is three things:<br /><br />- spend some money,<br />- know someone famous,<br />- and lie. A lot. Lie lie lie lie lie.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BRAINSTORM RIGHT NOW! </span> Tell you what: I'm going to do it. right now, as I write this. Ready?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Boston Souls.</span><br /><br />Just came up with that. It's my title. Of what, you ask? Of my film. The one I'm... pre-selling. (sadly, this isn't done much anymore, but I digress). What's pre-selling, you ask? Why, it's just what it sounds like: I'm selling -- no, <span style="font-style: italic;">offering an opportunity to buy</span>-- something that hasn't been made yet!<br /><br />Sa-weet!<br /><br />And, now, let's see.... The New York Film Company. (maybe "Village Films?")<br /><br />Just made that up, too. That's the name of my International Production and Distribution company. I like it--- I'll bet that exact company doesn't exist, but it sounds like a company that DOES exist. You gotta use the word "film," and those business types like the word "Company," and who doesn't like New York??<br /><br />So.... the New York film Company has a slate of five mid-budget (8-12 million) character-driven (read: cheap) romantic thrillers and romantic comedies, that are to be independently financed and structured for strong foreign sales (translation: no Baseball movies). NOOO, silly-- I haven't MADE any of these movies and in fact I really DON'T have any scripts. YET. But to quote Linda Obst: It's not a lie, it's just the truth that hasn't happened yet...<br /><br />Anyway. <span style="font-style: italic;">Boston Souls</span> is our first. It stars Dennis Leary, Chris O'Donnell, and Eliza Dushku, all of whom are committed; there's a terrific cameo for a aging-but-still-hot female police chief; both Meryll and Glenn are verrry interested but we can't officially say that, yet. If Meryll comes on we get Ed Harris, who wants to work with her, for the Uncle-- though I hear Dennis Hopper wants in. We're looking for pre-sale commitments in all territories. We're looking to start in May.<br /><br />OK, everything I just wrote? A lie. Lie lie lie lie lie. How do I get away with it? Easy-- first, I've got a HUGE, professional-looking poster with the stars' faces in it (you walked past it when you entered my office/hotel room); second, I've got just enough people who will, sort of, back up this cockamamie story; mainly, though, I LIKE LYING. I'm good at it. And if you walked up, saw that poster, made a few calls and yes, this Peter Kelley guy checks out, we haven't heard of Boston Souls but you never know... it might never occur to you that it's ALL A LIE.<br /><br />Unless, of course (and back to the Rug Bazaar) you've bought a few "fine Persian Rugs" that fell apart after a few weeks. In that case, you walk into my office/room with the assumption that EVERYONE'S lying.<br /><br />(P.S.: welcome to my world. "Why so cynical, Pete?" Because I've bought a few Fine Persian Rugs in my day, that's why.)<br /><br />So that's a film market. Like Toronto and Cannes (and, to a lesser extent, Berlin), Sundance is one of the few remaining festivals that is also a market, an open-air, Persian Rug bazaar-- just, you know, at high altitude and with ridiculous parties and swag-filled "lounges" and battalions of women in cowboy jackets and high-heeled uggs (and not much else) wheezing their way up and down Main Street (trolling for what, I always wonder... to be discovered? To sleep with a celebrity? To find a bathroom?) (But I digress.)<br /><br />SO, like any market, there are mainly two groups of people in Park City: buyers and sellers. And if you ain't buying, and you got nothing to sell? Best just to get out of the way.<br /><br />Which is what, come Friday, I do. Eliza's arriving, with an entourage, on Saturday morning;I have a friend who's arriving a little later that day. Thankfully, I've got tickets to three films, and I decide it's my mission to get more.<br /><br />The following four days are entirely unlike what I'd expected them to be, back when I'd first scheduled this trip. There are late nights, sure, but a sense of leisure during the day, a few car trips, and, yes: seeing films. And that's pretty much it.<br /><br />It's magical.<br /><br />Looking back, now, I can't imagine attending a film festival (a good one) any other way... and there's much to be learned from my cinematic adventures. So let's get to it, shall we? Our four films....<br /><br /><br />NUMBER ONE: THE HIP INDIE FILM<br /><br />Quick background: the Sundance film festival has grown to the point where fewer than half of the screening venues are actually in Park City. Of those that are, four have a certain cachet: The Egyptian (on Main Street, with that famous marquee that you've all seen pictures of); the Library (thanks to festival revenue, Park City has an impressive public library, and this close-to-town theatre, housed in the Town Library, is my personal favorite venue); The Eccles Auditorium (literally the auditorium at Park City High School--and, sure, why not have a 1,200-seat theatre with FULL DOLBY SOUND at a High School in the Utah mountains?), and, finally, Prospector Square, known mainly for its poor sightlines and Abu-Ghirab-style Seats of Torture. (not lyin 'bout that).<br /><br />Even though <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">You Won't Miss Me</span> isn't on my must-see-list, it is at Prospector Square, and has a primo screening time (Sat nite, 8PM), so I feel good about taking a chance on it. Plus, two other factors guide my decision:<br /><br />First, the description. In most festivals, those little blurbs in the festival guide are written by the filmmakers and are thus (for the most part) poorly-written propaganda and largely unhelpful-- but each Sundance film is lovingly "introduced" in the catalogue by a member of the selection committee. This, about <span style="font-style: italic;">You Won't Miss Me</span>:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(The Director) creates and engrossing character portrait in this deceptively compact, but exquisitely layered, feature. (She) renders this depiction of intersecting dead ends with astute and exactingly measured empathy. Her searching, eliptical narrative structure and compact, concentrated mis-en-scene astutely underline the lonesome self-sabotage involved when self-relaince becomes an armor against intimacy...</span><br /><br />...in other words, a small, performance-driven human drama. Right up my alley.<br /><br />Second, and more important: this could me MY film. It's not one of the splashy, must-see, "event" films of the festival, but it made it to the party nonetheless; this film had been CHOSEN, dammit, culled from those thousands of entries, that needle-in-a-haystack independent that had nothing going for it but merit and (hopefully) heart.<br /><br />I have to go. In truth, I'm kind of dying to go. Isn't this, after all, the whole point of film festivals-- of independent film, really?<br /><br />So we go. It's my friend's first night in park City, and <span style="font-style: italic;">You Won't Miss Me</span> will be her first-ever Sundance film. Thirty minutes into the film, we walk out.<br /><br />Please know this: I have not walked out of a film in years. And I tried, really I did, to like the film. To give it a chance. So what was it, exactly, that pushed me over the edge? That caused me so much frustration that I willingly braved the wrath of my row-mates, as well as everyone behind me, and overcame my fear of being recognized ("...hey, isn't that Peter Kelley-- the "Acting Guy"-- walking out? What a tool..."), and left?<br /><br />Well, let's see.<br /><br />Was it the horrid acting and loose, pointless, wandering dialogue (oops, sorry... "fresh, improvisational feel")? Nope. Was it the endless endless ENDLESS, bad film-school, drunken-hookup-with-loser scene? (Heroine, to Loser: "What's that on your arm-- are you OK?" Loser: "oh.... I think it's a zit." Long Meaningless Pause. "Maybe I should pop it." Long Meaningless Pause.) Nope, that wasn't it. Was it the cliche-ridden Audition for the Off-Off Broadway Play, complete with narcissistic gay director, orgasm improv, and all? Nope. Was it the late-night drunken parental phone call, with its slurred, teary, "where are you, MOM?! I had a bad audition and I NEED YOU but you're never there.... MOM!!"<br /><br />Actually..... no. In the end, it was this: I know this woman, the heroine of the film; in fact, I've known lots of her. They pop up every now and then in an acting class of mine, and here's what I've learned: this woman doesn't have a problem. She just needs to grow up. So why should I, or anyone, care? Why should we spend an hour and a half of our lives committed to her self-indulgent saga of delayed adolescence?<br /><br />(By contrast, watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Frozen River</span>, last year's prize winner. From the very start, Melissa Leo's character has problems-- real, unimaginable problems that require a succession of hard choices that only get harder, and the power of her performance lies in her never once allowing herself the emotional collapse she deserves, even though we feel it inside her. As a result, her performance stays with you long after the film has ended.)<br /><br />So we leave. But in my haste (and in a typical jackass-PK move) I leave my brand-new scarf behind; I observe that returning for the scarf is best done in the few minutes of confusion between when the film ends and when the hated Q-and-A begins. We pass the ensuing hour in a restaurant nursing beers while discussing not just the film, not just our disappointment, but this: the vague, angry frustration that we both feel.<br /><br />She's frustrated, I tell her, because the actress who was cast just wasn't that good. Me? I'm mad because... that film got in.<br /><br />There is really no feeling quite like the frustration that arises from injustice, for It's an emotion fueled by impotence. You perceive a wrong and are powerless to make it right.<br /><br />Over time, that impotent frustration grows in a person, as it has done and will always do to so many of you in this business. It's OK that the Hot Chick gets the role instead of you, or the producer's nephew or the Actor of the Moment or whomever... provided they're AT LEAST AS GOOD AS YOU. But if they're not, and you wanted that role...<br /><br />That's the thing about injustice: the experiencing of it feels so much worse than we imagine. You hear the sentence "...let me introduce the star of this extraordinary film", and while you'd braced yourself for how badly you wanted that person to be YOU, we're entirely unprepared for that feeling after having endured a bad film. Every handclap of applause is a slap in the face, a confirmation that, you know what? Maybe this isn't the business for us.<br /><br />To survive, one must reach a point where one can separate jealous admiration from the frustration of injustice.<br /><br />Jealousy -- good jealousy-- occurs during those moments of core honesty when you realize that, by comparison, others may be better at the thing you so love. Like this: I am sitting in a theatre in DC somewhere (this is a few years back), watching Samuel Jackson empty a Smith &amp; Wesson forty-four into some kid-- when suddenly that image smash-cuts to a shaven-head Bruce WIllis staring RIGHT AT ME just as the cannon-fire gunshots are replaced by the smooth, haunting opening of "Let's Stay Together". And all I can think is:<br /><br />"how did Quentin come up with that? How? <span style="font-style: italic;">How</span>???"<br /><br />Maybe, Pete, at least today... he's, uhm... better than you. And we mature, as artists, by learning how to replace our jealousy with admiration and learn from our betters.<br /><br />And if it had been his film here at Prospector Square tonight, all I'd feel is: I get it. I get why he got in. Good for him. And I like to think I'd be inspired to get back to work, and work a little harder, and get a little better. And I'd silently thank Quentin for the wake-up call.<br /><br />But this.... sitting in a packed theatre in Park City, cringing at something more poorly-shot and poorly-acted than most of what we do in class, and knowing the adulation that awaits the creator of this... whatever... there is nothing I can teach you here, for this is a lesson for which there is no shortcut to learning:<br /><br />Injustice is harder than you can imagine. It may, in fact, be the truest test of how badly one wants a thing: the continual decision to stay in the game, knowing how it may turn out-- worse, that how it may turn out has little to do with merit or desire or discipline or any of those things we've been taught, rightly, to respect. (Still want in? Are you sure? OK then.)<br /><br />Even so, in the thin, rapidly-cooling night air, I see a silver lining in the experience: movie-wise, I've got no place to go but UP.<br /><br />And I get my scarf back! I take it as a sign.<br /><br /><br /><br />NUMBER TWO: THE BLOCKBUSTER<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I Love You Phillip Morris</span> is one of the blockbuster titles of the festival, one of the "must see" films that's impossible get into. Thankfully, Cragslist has become something of a Sundance Equalizer, and I happen to log on at the right time and score a pair of tickets to the film.<br /><br />Even though we arrive stupidly early, the Ticket Holder line already fills the snaky, cattle-pen gates that have been set up. By the time we're let in, it will extend the length of the theatre and around the corner into darkness.<br /><br />After what we've come to call The Unmentionable Film (see above), we decide that whenever possible it's aisle seats for us, and we manage to snag a couple in a good spot, and settle in. Shortly before showtime, Jim Carey and Ewan MacGregor are hustled in, surrounded by a scrum of security-- and are immediately assaulted by seemingly half the theatre, all armed with digital cameras. Watching this awful spectacle -- I would guess, conservatively, that five hundred photographs of the stars are taken in the ensuing three minutes-- all I can wonder is, how do the paparazzi make any money at all? What are the odds that a "professional" photo is better than all of those hundreds of shots? But I digress.<br /><br />The house lights dim. <span style="font-style: italic;">I Love You Phillip Morris</span> is a difficult film to categorize-- Jim Carrey and Ewan MacGregor play gay men who meet in prison and fall in love-- but whatever it is, it's everything that The Unmentionable Film is not. They've spent money on this film, and spent it well; it feels professional, and smooth, it moves, it surprises.... and about halfway in, it has a Moment.<br /><br />I love Moments. More, I think, than almost anything. I won't ruin this particular Moment beyond saying it involves Jim and Ewan, sharing a prison cell at night, dancing to "Chances Are"-- when suddenly everything works, and the film... elevates. It rises to that magical place that films can take us and so seldom do. It's romantic and sweet and yet tears are streaming down my face I'm laughing so hard... and I'm back. In Park City.<br /><br />For this moment, these filmmakers are better than me. So many things had to work so perfectly to make this moment, and every one of them does. The moment is un-improvable, and they've got me. I'm in. I'll go wherever the cast and filmmakers want to take me.<br /><br />Problem is, they try to take me to too many places. They want to make two movies, which might be OK, except that one of them is a Jim Carrey movie.... and the other one isn't. One is a Gay Comedy, John Waters gay, and the other one isn't. And my finely tuned dog-ears can hear the thoughts of the buyers, sprinkled throughout the theatre: "What do we do with this?"-- and later: "There's nothing we can do with this."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There's nothing we can do with this.</span> Jim Carrey, folks. The twenty-million dollar man. With Obi-Wan, no less. A 1200-seat theatre, filled to capacity. Wild applause.<br /><br />As of this writing, I Love You Phillip Morris has not sold.<br /><br />LESSON: there are no guarantees in this business. None.<br /><br /><br />NUMBER THREE: PROSPECTOR SQUARE, AGAIN<br /><br />So I'm at the Variety party (you knew there had to be a few parties, right?) and I see Emerson Bruns, an old business friend from New York. We're talking films, and it ends up that another friend is somehow involved with <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Once More With Feeling</span>, which is screening the following afternoon at Prospector Square. There are no tickets to be had, but one generally has a better shot at wait-listing daytime events (especially with this weather!!), so I go.<br /><br />The film stars Chazz Palmintieri, Drea DeMateo, and Linda Fiorentino; not surprisingly, it's a Quirky-Family Film about how dreams and romance never die. This from the Sundance catalog:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...brimming with heart, and music, and featuring fine performances from its ensemble cast, Once More With Feeling perfectly captures the strength of family bonds in the face of life's temptations and trials.</span><br /><br />Where to start with <span style="font-style: italic;">Once More With Feeling</span>?<br /><br />How 'bout with the fact that the viewer is treated to... <span style="font-style: italic;">Chazz Palmintieri Sings! </span> And sings again! And again! There is, conservatively, an album's worth of Chaz singing in this film-- and no "a few bars then cut to the next scene," no...these are full songs.<br /><br />Or maybe it's the fact that we're asked to buy into a simmering Chazz Pamintieri - Linda Fiorentino romance that leads, cringingly, to The Big Kiss (and Chazz, of course, is a Married Man, and Linda, of course, is single). Full Disclosure: after The Last Seduction (IMDB it), there was a period where Linda Fiorentino played a major role in my fantasy life-- and to see my Linda like this, buckled into the front seat of a car, in a stiffly-written and awkwardly staged scene where she is meant to wait, aching, for friggin' <span style="font-style: italic;">Chazz Palmintieri</span> to lean across and make his move... how times change, all I can say.<br /><br />With this one, we can't leave. I have friends in the audience, and since we got in from the God-help-me WAITING LINE, we were the last to be seated and I have no way of knowing where they are. So here we are again, asking how did this get in? Except this time, there's an answer: the director, that's how.<br /><br />Jeff Lipsky is something of a legend in Park City: a well-known and well-repsected producer who, it must be said, helped shape and nurture the entire independent film movement in America. So: a pedigree director, an indie-film all-star cast... what's not to love?<br /><br />The film, that's what. Sadly, none of it really worked, starting with the script. The cast struggled mightily to bring the words off the page but in the end, and lacking the presence of a strong director (and even that may not have helped), there was simply nothing to be done.<br /><br />In the men's room afterward, a publicist at the urinal next to me: "well, that's two hours we won't get back-- can you believe what a piece of garbage that was? So disappointing, my GOD..."<br /><br />He does not notice that one of the stars (not Chazz, thankfully) has sidled up to the urinal on the other side. Ahh, Sundance.<br /><br />LESSON(S): I see two here. 1) Just because you WANT to direct doesn't mean you CAN direct. No one is immune to this, not even if you're a legendary producer, and 2) I've said it before and I'll say it again: great movies --all of 'em, every single one-- come from GREAT SCRIPTS. No exceptions. None. This movie was DOA before the first frame of film was shot.<br /><br /><br />NUMBER FOUR: FINALLY, A SUNDANCE FILM<br /><br />Back at the Eccles on Monday night.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Messenger</span> is not an easy film; worse (for the filmmakers), it's an Iraq film, attempting to find a foothold in a tough market at a point when Iraq Film Fatigue is a known phenomenon.<br /><br />It's a simple pitch: Ben Foster is an Iraq combat vet who's sent back to the states to serve the remainder of his tour, where he's partnered with Woody Harrelson, and Woody's job is to teach Ben to be an "Angel of Death"-- Ben and Woody are the First Notifiers of the relatives of soldiers killed in duty. (Note to my Monday Night peeps: throughout the film, I'm thinking that I could have made the same movie with Conan McCarty and young Tim Rouhana. Or Eddie M and Tim, or Chris Coffey. Or Gerry Urcioli.)<br /><br />And that's it. Sure, there's a love interest (Samantha Morton, brilliant in the Laura Heisler Role as a widow who begins a quiet relationship with Ben), and sure there are stories of friendship and dislocation-- but like any beautiful small film, descriptions really don't do it justice.<br /><br />Even so, two moments stand out so much:<br /><br />The first is pretty much smack in the middle of the film, and is the core of one of the film's story lines-- the developing relationship between Ben and Samantha. Ben, a mechanic, has helped repair Samantha's car, and she invites him in for coffee.<br /><br />And we watch. We watch these two quiet souls move slowly, respectfully closer, negotiating propriety with desire, trying to figure out what they should do and what they want to do. They kiss... they stop. They talk a little, they stop. They hug, they stop. It feels, as I'm fond of saying, just like life. Oh, and did I mention it's covered in a single wide shot?<br /><br />The other is near the end of the film. Woody has finally confessed the truth to Ben-- that while he was indeed sent to Desert Storm, he never saw action. In response, Ben finally tells the wrenching story of what happened to him in Iraq, how he came to be wounded and receive his medal. It's direct, underplayed to the point of plainness, and powerful. After a silence (they're sitting side-by-side in Ben's living room), Woody asks for a beer. Ben goes to get it and, once alone, Woody starts crying. Tears that turn into silent, wracking sobs. This is never explained. Better... we cut to Ben, closing the fridge, hearing something... then peeking around the corner into the living room and seeing Woody in tears. He ducks back and remains in the kitchen, silent, holding Woody's beer. Waiting for the storm to pass.<br /><br />Every man in the theatre is devastated by this. By not just Woody, but Ben, standing in the kitchen. It's a moment of power and honesty that one so seldom sees on film, an emotionally courageous moment that affects me still. Every man wants to turn to any woman in earshot and say: "THIS is what it's like to be a man-- all this silence, all this isolation, all this pain-- and there's a part of this that you will never, ever understand."<br /><br />To which the woman might reply: "maybe I understand it a little better, now."<br /><br />Which is why we make movies. They tell us, sometimes, what we can't tell one another.<br /><br />And this film will never find its way into a theatre. It'll air on cable somewhere, and when it does, see it, please. Make the effort.<br /><br />We stay for the Q-and-A. I want to see the director, to hear what he has to say (interestingly, he's a bald israeli dude who towers over both Woody and Ben). Anyone who's sat through a few Q-and-A sessions learns quickly to expect the worst-- the stupid questions, the rambling pretentious questions, the inevitable "what was your budget?" question. So I'm pleasantly surprised when:<br /><br />"how long was the kitchen scene?" (the Ben-and-Samantha scene I mentioned above) The answer: nine minutes.<br /><br />I'm stunned. Oh, it was long --daringly so-- but I had no idea. On 35mm film, the longest roll you can get has about eleven minutes worth of film. They had one take per roll. It's ballsy, and I'm impressed with this director.<br /><br />Question two, a follow-up: "how many takes of that did you shoot?"<br /><br />Two-- well, three, really.<br /><br />Question number three is the best yet: "...so which take did we see?"<br /><br />Before you read the answer... guess. Go ahead.<br /><br /><br /><br />Think you've got it? OK...<br /><br /><br /><br />"Well, I didn't tell the actors, but we rolled on the rehearsal. That's the take we used."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The rehearsal</span>. They used the rehearsal.<br /><br />LESSON: this is why I train FIRST TAKE ACTORS. Because your best stuff is so often THE REHEARSAL and if it's not RECORDED ON FILM then it DOESN'T COUNT.<br /><br />Got it? Good.<br /><br /><br /><br />FINALLY... THE FILM THAT WASN'T<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">An Education </span>was the film at Park City I most wanted to see. It's from a Nick Hornby novel (About a Boy or High Fidelity, etc), stars Peter Saarsgard and Alfred Molina, and the buzz was that the female lead would break out with this performance. Two problems: A) this was premiering at the Egyptian, the smallest of the Park City venues, and B) I only have one ticket, and my friend expressed an interest in seeing it as well. Bummer. But, again, it's a daytime screening (did I mention the weather is wonderful?) So I head down to the Egyptian to wait in the standby ticket line.<br /><br />I arrive over two hours early. There are already sixty-seven people in the line; the theatre seats about 280; this is one of the "big buzz" films at all of Sundance this year. You do the math.<br /><br />I decide to be the Good Friend and repay the Scarf Karma by offering her the single seat. As the screening approaches, I offer to be the BETTER friend and actually hold a place in the line (she's "getting ready."). But I'm clear: it's a 3PM screening and they'll start letting people in at 2:30 SHARP. The line will move at 2:30 SHARP.<br /><br />2:30 sharp: the line begins to move. I immediately send a text.<br /><br />2:38: I am at the front of the line. I text again. No word back, so I've got no choice but to cringe and let people behind me in line go ahead. As each one passes, they look at me, at the ticket in my hand; they glance up with expressions of confusion and pity.<br /><br />2:44: the line stops. That's cool, though, because A) I'm about six people away from the front of the line, and B) they always do this, to get a seat count at crunch time, and C) my friend is JUST NOW ARRIVING.<br /><br />We swap places. I loiter around the front of the theatre, just to check out the scene, and... oh, to to hell with it. I'm not going to drag this out: two more people are let inside. My friend isn't one of them.<br /><br />Remember: I let about THIRTY people pass in front of me.<br /><br />LESSON: sometimes in life the fine print counts. In this case: A TICKET DOES NOT GUARANTEE ADMISSION.<br /><br /><br />So there you go. Beautiful weather, and a few films. Not bad. Not bad at all.<br /><br /><br />PKPeter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6711292951784944315.post-84797275359581609052009-01-05T18:18:00.000-08:002009-02-05T18:19:36.918-08:00Muscle Memory, the Pledge of Allegiance, and learning your DAMNED LINES!I was first introduced to the concept of muscle memory in, not surprisingly, a fitness magazine. <br /><br />While it seemed to my scientific mind like a "muscle-headed" concept at the time (ahem), I've been reading, and thinking, about Muscle Memory again, and how it applies to the ongoing issue of memorization.<br /><br />FOR THE UNINITIATED, "Muscle Memory" refers to how a formerly fit person's body gets back into shape after time away from the gym. According to the theory, the muscles of a formerly buff, in-shape bodybuilder "remember" their previous state of, well, "jacked-ness;" as a result, a fit person will get back into shape in less time than a novice would require to achieve the same level of fitness, since the fromerly-fit person's muscles carry a sort of "memory" of being in shape.<br /><br />See what I mean? Hair-brained. <br /><br />On another level, though, it had a degree of anecdotal truth: I knew from my own experience as a runner that I'd "get it back", after an absence from running, in much less time than a beginner would require to reach my level of fitness. Still, I chalked much of that up to experience and psychology, assumed it was a mind-over-matter thing, and otherwise thought little of it. <br /><br />But now Muscle Memory is back. Recent research into soft-tissue structure and functioning is providing some interesting, and startling, insights, and may even be proving the muscleheads right. No, I'm not going to get all scientific on you, but consider: all the mushy stuff inside you (well, most of it, anyway) is tissue. Brain? Tissue. Muscles? Tissue. Intestines, stomach, etc? You guess it-- tissue. Yet, organ-wise, we've been brought up to think that all of our thought and awareness and memory occurs, and is stored, solely in our brain. In other words, our brain tissue is somehow fundamentally different than all the other tissue in our bodies. <br /><br />But what if it isn't? Think: how does your stomach "remember" what to do? How does a bone "remember" what it felt like before you slipped and broke it? Researchers are exploring the idea that brain tissue may not be the only place in our bodies where what we think of as "memory" is stored after all. <br /><br />"Well, duh. "<br /><br />I hope that's what you're thinking as you read this, because every actor should innately understand the link between muscular activity and memorization.<br /><br />Why? Because speaking is a physical activity. You speak with your muscles as much as your mind. The muscular activity involved in speaking is subtle, yes, but so is surgery, and certainly no one would underestimate the importance of motor skills to the guy who does your gums. And it's always seemed to me, even back in my own acting days, that deep concentration never led to quicker memorization-- and now scientific thought supports what I've been saying to many of you for years: you carry the memory of your lines in your mouth as much as your brain. <br /><br />Think not? Then try this simple test: say the Pledge of Allegience. <br />Right now, out loud. DON'T THINK-- look away from your I-phone or laptop or whatever RIGHT NOW and do it.<br /><br />GO.<br /><br />•<br /><br />•<br /><br />•<br /><br />•<br /><br />Done? How'd you do? <br /><br />Here's what I know: if you didn't say it perfectly, you at least came pretty damned close. Now some of you have seen this exercise done in my class-- if you were lucky, you witnessed a fellow actor, fully insistent on the futility of the exercise, growing more amazed as strange words came out of their mouth that they were absolutely certain no longer existed there. Me, every time I watch this exercise I think I'm witnessing something of a miracle. Here's why: <br /><br />Chances are, you haven't thought of those words in years. for many of you, it's been DECADES since you last spoke them. More, you didn't wake up this morning thinking about your "big Pledge of Allegiance audition." In fact, you didn't "rehearse" the words at all-- you just looked up and started speaking. And out they came.<br /><br />So where were they? In what corner of your brain were they sitting, assumedly forgotten, waiting to be instantly called up? I think there's something to the possibility that they were lodged somewhere in your muscle fiber. <br /><br />The lesson is clear: whether you've got two weeks or two hours or twenty minutes, your focus during memorization should be on Muscle Memory. I've long maintained that memorizing is an athletic activity-- and as with any athletic activity, one can be in, or out of, shape. Like any exercise, you become a better memorizer by working the muscle of memorization. <br /><br />How? Mainly by simply speaking, not "acting," your lines OUT LOUD again and again and again. And again.<br /><br />Most of you may be familiar with the "speed through"-- the up-tempo running of lines with regard for little but speed. (Back when I was acting, this was sometimes called an "Italian" run-- we guessed that it had to do with the notion that Italians speak quickly, which is certainly true; others theorized that it had something to do with opera, but no one was really sure. And I digress.)<br /><br />If done properly, the "speed-through" may be the most efficient way I know of to quickly internalize text. But keep in mind that diction CANNOT be a casualty of the speed-through. If you're speaking so quickly that you begin to mumble, slow it down. If anything, it will help to over-pronounce during the speed-through. Lines get lodged in your mouth muscles when you work them, hard.<br /><br />Why does this work? Because by focusing on tempo... you, the actor, free yourself from worry about performance. You're not trying to be good, you're trying to be fast. And here's secret number #1 about the speed-through: a little performance creeps in anyway. <br /><br />Secret #2? When left alone to rehearse, actors tend to weigh a scene down with Meaningful Pauses. What actors don't notice, during the speed-through, is that some of their pauses creep in anyway-- but only those that are necessary to the scene. There's no time for the others, and they rightfully fall away. So remember:<br /><br />1) STOL. In other words, Six Times Out Loud. This should be an Actor Law, especially as relates to auditions: when you go in to audition, it should be AT LEAST the sixth time you've read the scene OUT LOUD.<br /><br />2) OUT LOUD means FULL VOICE, whatever that may be. This is my least favorite thing: watching actors eagerly run off to their fifteen minutes of prep, and on those occasions that I may pass them on my way to the restroom, I find them deep in thought, script in hand-- and SILENT. They'we wasting incredibly precious time THINKING about something they should be SPEAKING about.<br /><br />So when approaching memorization, focus on putting the words in your jaw muscles, not your brain. And if you were a jock in high school, and not a brainiac? Ends up you might be the better memorizer, after all. Who'da thunk it?Peter Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09134088020558084239noreply@blogger.com0